


Hit Me With Your Best Shot

by jdrush, KylaraIngress



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV First Person, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 44,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaraIngress/pseuds/KylaraIngress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam & Al meet up at MIT in the late '70s, and don't get along with each other. And things snowball from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece co-written by myself and J.D. Rush, where - for the most part - she took Sam's POV and I took Al's. We were constantly trying to one-up each other on the plot, and once it was finished, we went through and tweaked some stuff overall to make it work, so there are some segments that don't match that. We have taken some liberties on the timeline mentioned in the episode "Her Charm". For any and all traditionalists, this can be one of the many AUs created by Sam leaping around. 
> 
> Written in 2002/2003, and originally published in the Vision Quest Press zine _The Angel and the Dreamer_ , issue 6, so despite that 'incomplete' icon, the work is done. Much thanks - and dedication - to our poor beta Minna Harper, caught between a rock and a hard place dealing with both of us. 
> 
> As the tags indicate, there is a chapter with some very mild dubcon, and the story has some boxing-related violence. Those chapters will be noted as such so you can avoid if it's triggering for you.
> 
> Posted as part of Throwback Thursdays. If you're interested, [HERE](http://kylaraingress.tumblr.com/) is my Tumblr. Not updated very often. 
> 
> J.D. isn't on AO3, but you can find her over on [LiveJournal](http://gimgolas.livejournal.com/): head's up that it's mostly _Sherlock_ stuff now. (I'm also on [LiveJournal](http://afsutton.livejournal.com/), but it's updated even less than my Tumblr.)

_ **MIT** _

**Tuesday, March 15, 1977**

**SAM:**

I hated him. I hated everything about him: his arrogant manner, his conceited attitude, his smug, self-important air. Who the hell did he think he was? One semester under his belt, and he acted like the he owned the place. Everyone flocked to him. Everyone adored him. He was the golden-boy of MIT and every time I saw him I wanted to scream!

Just one year ago, that was ME! I could do no wrong. Three doctorates down, numerous more to go. The professors loved me, the administration loved me, the alumni loved me. Everything was perfect.

All right, so the student body didn't like me. I was years younger than most of them, and had accomplished things they couldn't even imagine. They hated to see me enter one of their classes, knowing I was going to throw the whole grade curve out of whack. And I could never understand their juvenile antics, the weird fraternity stunts, the whole 'college experience'.

But HE could.

Hell, he was old enough to be their father, yet there he was – in the middle of the pep rallies, buying the beer for the frat parties, organizing the panty raids. Sometimes, he was the most juvenile one in the bunch.

God, I hated him!

And it had nothing to do with the fact that he stole my girl. Well, she wasn't really MY girl. Okay, to be truthful, I couldn't even work up the courage to talk to her. Faith Marlow. She was one of the juniors in my Chem. Lab. A beautiful, willowy honey-blonde, with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. I stared at her from across the room for months, not even daring to ask her for a beaker or mortar and pestle.

Then one day on my way to class, I saw her with HIM. They were laughing as they walked along, his hand on her cute little butt; when they got to their destination, he kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed her some more. Next thing I knew, they were heading back to the dorms again, the classroom and its lessons a forgotten memory.

It didn't last long. None of his affairs did. He went through women like most guys go through socks. Each week was someone new. He managed to hit on every good-looking girl on campus. And almost every one of them, even the ones with steady boyfriends, fell for his ridiculous rehearsed pick-up lines. You know how most guys, when they brag about women, they have to lie and change all their failed seductions into successful ones? Well, Al Calavicci never had to lie. He had more women than a NOW rally.

I REALLY hated him!

And you know what I hated most? Even more than his womanizing? Even more than the stupid panty raids? Even more than the fact that he was the most beloved man on campus? I hated that I hated him. This was a man who spent five years in a POW camp. A man who worked his fingers to the bone at NASA, and had managed to fly around the earth on an Apollo mission. A man who at the age of 40-something had decided to go back to college and finish his doctorate in electrical engineering. A man whom I discovered was every bit as intelligent as I was. Given the breaks I had had in my life, he possibly could have gone far . . . even farther than he managed to do on his own.

I should have admired the man for everything he had overcome in his life to get to this point. I should have been impressed by all he had accomplished. I should have been honored to be on the same campus as this All-American hero. I should have been, except for one thing . . . .

The bastard stole my idea for my latest doctoral thesis!

NOW you know why I hate him!

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Al cusses like the proverbial sailor. He WAS in the Navy, after all.

**TWO WEEKS EARLIER . . . .**

**AL:**

Ah, my aching back! There are just some positions the human body is not made out to bend in, I don't care WHAT the Karma Sutra says. But Faith . . . Faith had shown me that there were things even I did not know about the Art of Love. Or the Art of Fucking, at least.

I sat in my bed, one hand chomped on my cigar, the other curled around the sleeping feminine form beside me. While I never understood the feminine need for cuddling, I knew that when done (and done right) it inevitably led to another encore for the horizontal tango. And that was ALWAYS something I could look forward to.

My life was almost perfect. I had looked the devil in the eye and spat in his face, 'Nam becoming a distant memory. I had survived marriage (and divorce) with a vengeance. I had felt the force of several G's pushing me back in my seat as it blasted me away from the Earth and into the sky. And I was now well on my way to finally finishing that doctorate in electrical engineering. It was almost perfect. Almost.

Except for one thing. One little annoying, pestering, humiliating thing. HIM. That fraggin' civvie pretty-boy Beckett. Seems everywhere I turned I heard about the great Sam Beckett, boy genius. He sucked up to the professors, ass-kissed the alumni, and snubbed his way past the rest of us 'normal' people, keepin' that beak o' his high in the air, lookin' like we should be ashamed that it takes us a tad bit longer to do advanced calculus. The kid wouldn't know hard work if it bit him in the ass, and it infuriated me even more that he was well onto his fourth doctorate at the age I was barely out of Annapolis and getting ready to defend my country against those Communists in 'Nam. Even Faith, while more than willin' to let me show her new horizons, hadn't been able to stop talkin' about the kid from Chem. Lab who was so smart that she was literally in awe of him.

And the worst part? LoNigro. He and I had become fast friends at a time when I knew the implications of bein' friends with professors; that's why I did a lot of the prank thing – so the kids knew I wasn't tryin' to brown-nose my way to a good grade (unlike SOME people). But I had sat down across from him at the cafeteria one day last September, not realizing he was not only a professor, but also a professor I would have this semester, and we started talking. Once I realized WHO he was, I had let him know of my rule of not bein' too friendly, and he had told me to stop being foolish and to just tell everyone I was doin' an independent study.

And who did he talk about when our conversation got academic? Beckett. That damn draft-dodgin' dick. How the two of them would go up to LoNigro's cabin to discuss that idiotic theory of time/space continuum Beckett was postulating. (Rumor had it that the damn thing was actually a theory for time travel. Can you imagine?) Part of me wondered if that's ALL they did up in that cabin, but I had too much respect for Spence to think he'd go THAT low. I mean, the kid was good lookin' – even I could see that – but you'd have to take that high-n-mighty attitude with it. Kid probably cried out his OWN name during sex, if he ever got any.

That's what he needed – a good, stiff fuck. He was WAY too uptight. I mean, he had good ideas, but he completely forgot the human element of things. I realized that once after LoNigro's class. I was waitin' to talk to Spence but had to listen to HIM go on and on about his stupid theories, and so I distracted myself by lookin' at his books and stuff. Layin' out on top, almost beggin' me to read it, were his notes. I glanced up, noticed they were still at it hot-n-heavy, and so I let my eyes wander back.

I'm tellin' ya – I didn't MEAN to keep readin'. I was just curious. Honest. But I started to read what he had, and couldn't believe my eyes. Sittin' there in black and white was MY basic idea. The one I had been talkin' to LoNigro about. The one I had been working on for nearly a year now. The bastard had stolen my thesis! Must've wheedled it outta LoNigro somehow. Just what the hell went ON in that cabin? I briefly wondered if Spence talked in his sleep.

But he had it all wrong. Like I said, he seemed to forget the human element. If he was gonna build a parallel hybrid computer, it would need to have the human capacity to learn, to grow, to go beyond its original programming. In essence, it would need a sense of self, an ego. I had glanced back up at the wonder boy and decided then and there that whatever it took, I would make him pay for everything.

So, when I noticed his longing glances towards Faith, I put her next at the top of my conquests. And I would show him where he was goin' wrong in my own thesis. And I was determined to get him kicked out of MIT if it was the last thing I did.

My thoughts went back to the lovely lady lying in my arms, and I re-thought my comment that all Sam Beckett needed was a good, stiff fuck. I could tell most of his posturing was just tension, and there was nothing like a great lay to release it. Hell, always worked for me. My mind then suddenly came up with a way to combine my two plans, and gently – so as to not wake up Faith – I slithered out of bed and went to the phone.

"Hey, Brandi?" I started, once I heard the feminine voice pick up on the other end. "Yeah, it's me. Remember how you said you would do anything for me? Well, I just came up with a way for you to repay your debt." And I started outlaying my plan. After that, I would just let nature take its course. Let's see how Beckett liked gettin' thrown in jail for propositioning a prostitute.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Wednesday, March 16, 1977**

**SAM:**

Damn it! I just can't believe he'd . . . damn it! How could he DO this to me? That book is two weeks overdue, and I need it for my research. He knows how important that book is. He's doing it on purpose – I just know he is. Either that, or he can't work a trip to the library into his busy schedule of trying to bed every breathing female in Cambridge!

I had no choice but to use the one in the reference section . . . again. I really hated that. I'd just get rolling and suddenly it would be closing time. If I could just get my hands on that book, I could use it whenever the inspiration struck me and I'd be able to get some serious work done. I had begged Anabel, the Head Librarian, to let me borrow the Reference copy, just for a few days, but she said she could get in a lot of trouble if that one ended up MIA like the first copy apparently had. Well, I liked Anabel a lot – she was a dear elderly woman from London, and I considered her a good friend. I didn't want her to get into any trouble, so I shut my mouth, grabbed the reference copy, and staked out my usual table.

Couldn't have been more than 30 minutes or so later that I heard a loud "CRASH" near my left shoulder – I must've jumped 20 feet in the air. When I came back down again, I was face to . . . um . . . hemline with a girl. Make that an enchantress. My eyes followed her legs up, up, all the way to her neck, and my mouth went dry as I gawked at her.

She had soft permed red-hair flowing over her shoulders and light green eyes the color of sea-foam; her pouty bee-stung lips were almost as red as her flaming hair. She wore a skin-tight emerald green Danskin dress that hugged a figure that would put an hourglass to shame and barely covered her assets. When she spoke, it was in a low, throaty tone that sent chills down my back, "Oh, silly me . . . I'm SO clumsy," and she crouched down to retrieve her books and supplies.

Without stopping to think, I dropped down beside her to help. I was only trying to be chivalrous; I don't know how I ended up looking down her dress. I SWEAR! "See anything you like?" she asked breathlessly. I know my face turned as red as her hair.

"Ah . . . oh, ah . . . no, I mean, yes, I mean . . . ahhh, here are your notebooks," I managed to stutter as I went for her runaway pens. The quicker I helped her on her way, the quicker I could get back to work and put thoughts of her tantalizing bra-less breasts out of my thoughts.

"Thank you – you're sweet," she cooed as I got even redder. I crawled back into my chair thinking the encounter was done, but my Delilah wouldn't go away so easily. She hopped up on the table and crossed her long, luscious legs, causing her thigh-high skirt to hike up even higher until I couldn't help but see her lacy garters holding up her stockings. Oh, boy, she wasn't wearing panty hose. I thought I might faint. And I'm sure the 3-inch high-heeled shoe that grazed past my knee was just an accident. "So, whatcha reading?" she asked as she casually flipped my book closed to look at the cover, "Hmmm . . . _Analytic Properties of Feynman Diagrams in Quantum Field Theory_. WOW! You must be REALLY smart to understand all this!"

"I . . . ah, yeah, I guess so," I stammered.

Again, the shoe caressed my leg, higher than before. Much higher . . . too high. "Oooh, smart guys turn me on," she confessed. I let out a squeak of surprise as her foot brushed against my confused, but interested, Little Einstein, and I again jumped 20 feet in the air. She smirked at my response and purred, "But then again, I wouldn't care if you were dumb as dirt – you make me hot, cutie-pie!"

This couldn't be happening! "Oh, boy. I . . . ah, I think there's been some kind of mistake."

She leaned towards me, my attention once more drawn to her gaping neckline. I never knew breasts could be that perfect. With one flawlessly manicured finger, she lifted my chin until I was gazing into her dazzling eyes. "What's the problem, baby?"

I couldn't even think, but I knew I had to get out of there before I made a fool of myself. Or maybe I already had – I could just feel every eye in the place staring at me. I didn't know what was going on, but my gut instinct said, "RUN!"

"Nothing. I just . . . ahh, I just gotta go." I grabbed my knapsack off the floor and started shoveling in all my notes and books.

She gracefully slid off the table, her dress getting caught on the edge, pulling it up until I caught a glimpse of her frilly white panties. "Oooh, you're so right, honey," she murmured. "Let's finish this someplace quiet, like your place?"

No, THAT wasn't what I wanted at all! (Well, actually, it WAS, but . . .) I threw the last of my things into my bag and heaved it over my shoulder. I then picked up the precious reference book and placed it back on the shelf, using the time to try to think of a tactful way out of this predicament. When I turned around and found her still waiting for me at the table, I told her, "I . . . ahh, I'm sorry . . . no. I . . . I've got a roommate."

I thought my lie would work . . . . I thought wrong. She ran one hand up the front of my pinstriped Oxford shirt and unfastened the top button, then the next; I was stunned into immobility, and some part of me feared she'd be able to strip me naked and I wouldn't be able to stop her. And when the hell did my jeans get so tight?

She just leered at me, "That's all right. If he's half as cute as you are, I'll do you both for the price of one." Giving a little chuckle, she added, "After all, like the commercial says, 'Double your pleasure, double your fun.'"

When she said that, a little alarm went off in my head. Price? Could she be a . . . no. But yet it made sense, and would certainly explain a lot of what was happening. I may not be very experienced in the ways of the world, but even I knew things like this didn't happen except in the fevered imagination of the guys who write letters to the Penthouse Forum. Not that I read that magazine . . . often.

But the more I looked at this stunning lady, I knew it could be no other reason. Still, I had to know the truth – it wasn't fair to just accuse her of something she may be innocent of. "Why are you on a college campus looking for customers?"

If I expected her to be shocked or outraged at my allegation, I was mistaken. She just shrugged her slim shoulders and smirked, "Where else am I going to find so many good-looking young men with lots of spending money from mommy and daddy?"

"But, why?" I found myself asking.

She looked perplexed, "I just told you . . . ."

"No, no . . . I mean, why do you do it? You're so pretty and seem so nice – you've got a gorgeous smile and . . . ."

"My smile?" she interrupted. "You like my smile?"

Well, admittedly it wasn't the first thing I had noticed, but the way she was packaged, that wasn't too surprising. "Uh-huh, and your eyes . . . ."

"What . . . what about my eyes?" she asked, uncertainly.

I sighed, "They're spellbinding."

She laughed, " I don't think anyone has noticed my eyes since I was nine."

"You know, they say you can tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes."

"You really think so?" she asked, and she paused to look into mine.

After a few moments, I started to get a bit uncomfortable, until I couldn't stand it any more. "So . . . ahh, what do you see?"

She waited another second before answering, with wonder, "I feel like I could get lost in them."

I wasn't quite expecting that. "Ahhh, oh, boy!" The blood just rushed to my face, and she giggled, a sound like a hundred tiny bells. I was really starting to like this girl. I stuck out my hand, smiled graciously, and introduced myself, "Hi. My name is Sam."

She looked at it like it was a foreign object before she finally grasped it and shook, saying, "Brandi."

"Nice to meet you, Brandi. Would you . . . ahh, that is, do you want to talk for a couple of minutes?"

She gave me a huge smile. I was right – it was gorgeous, just like the rest of her. "I'd like that, Sam."

++++++++

I don't know how long we sat there in the library talking – at least an hour, maybe more – as she told me all about her life: how she had quit school and left Ohio when she was just 16 years old to become a singer; how things didn't work out, and her singing career went nowhere; how, at the age of 17, she fell back on the only thing she thought she could do well, selling her own body for men's pleasures; how she hadn't been home in over 6 years.

"I just can't go back," she softly sobbed.

"Sure you can," I said, gently clasping her hand. "Ohio must be nice this time of year. I wish I could get back to Indiana, but with my class load, it's unlikely."

"It's not that. How can I ever face mom and dad again after all the horrible things I've done?" she lamented.

"It won't matter to them. They'll love you anyway."

She turned those beautiful eyes to me, and I could see the hope residing in them. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course. That's what parents do. They forgive and love their children. No matter what."

Her smile of gratitude warmed my heart. Suddenly a troubled look crossed her lovely features, "Sam, what time is it?"

While surprised by the question, I still looked at my watch, "Ah, it's a little after 9:00."

"Shit! I have to go . . . . I've . . . ." She stopped, and gave me an embarrassed grin, "I've got a 'date' at 10:00." She grabbed her bag off the table and stood up, "But I'm going to think about what you said. You know, about how it's not too late for me to go back to school and get out of this life. I really want to. And maybe . . . maybe I'll go home, too."

I rose as well, saying, "I think your parents would like that."

She gave me a rueful little smile. "So would I."

I helped her into her fur jacket and walked her to the front door of the library. I wished I could have talked her out of going, but it was a decision only Brandi could make. Perhaps one day, she could gather the courage to change her life for the better.

At the entrance, she stopped, flashed me a sultry smile, and said, "You know, my 'date' won't last long. I could stop by your place later – no charge."

I felt my cheeks burning up, and I took a deep breath to calm my racing heart. After all, it wasn't everyday that a woman like Brandi crossed your path. But even with all the treasures she offered, it wasn't what I was looking for. "That's a tempting offer, Brandi, but . . . ."

"But . . . you don't date whores, right?" she said, sadly.

I shook my head. "No, it's not you, really. It's just . . . look, I know this might sound stupid or old fashioned, but, well, I just can't sleep with someone I've only known an hour." I took hold of her hand, "Even someone as wonderful as you. I just believe you should only make love to someone you love. I guess it was just the way I was brought up."

"That's not stupid, just sweet." She leaned over and gave me a small kiss on my lucky lips. "I wish more men were brought up that way."

She pulled me in for a quick hug goodbye, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of light, like from a lighter, coming from the bushes that surrounded the library. I paid it no heed as Brandi gave me another quick peck on the cheek and began heading down the stairs.

"You be good now," I called down to her.

She turned and looked back up to me, and even in the darkness, I could see her grin. She blew me a kiss and laughed, "Well, it'll be hard, but I'll try. Thanks, Sam."

I stood at the top of the stairs and watched as she walked over to the bushes, where I had seen the flash of light. I noticed it was still there; it looked like it could be a cigar. Maybe this was her 'date' – lucky guy. They took a few steps, until they were near one of the street lamps – it was then that I could see that the figure with the cigar was none other than HIM.

The bane of my existence.

I was about to rush down to her aid – hell, who knew WHAT that animal would do to her – when she hauled off and slapped him across the face. I was stunned, but couldn't help but smile as she yelled, "Al, you're a pig!" before she stormed off. I chuckled to myself. Well, that was ONE girl Calavicci wasn't going to get . . . .

Or did he already? My good humor faded quickly. She had spoken his name. She must've known him, somehow. Great. There wasn't enough free nookie around for him he had to PAY for it, too? Was there no end to his depravity? Couldn't he keep the damn thing in his pants for more than five minutes?

But as disturbing as it was to imagine that beast with that beauty, it was even more troubling to me that of all the men in the library, she had found me. What if she was seeking me out? A dawning realization was coming to me, one I didn't even want to acknowledge because it was so underhanded, so devious – so Al.

He had set me up. He had planned to have Brandi seduce me, then steal all my notes after our little tryst.

My God, it was like something out of a bad dime-store mystery novel. It almost would've been funny if it weren't so demeaning. The fact that he would use another human being for his own nefarious purposes, especially one as sweet and vulnerable as Brandi, sickened me. And as I stood there, glaring at the man who was fast becoming my Moriarty, all I could think was that Brandi was right:

The man WAS a pig.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry about the delay on this. My life has been a bit of a roller coaster.

**AL:**

It took me a bit to set up my plans, to coordinate all the various parts of the trap I now laid for Beckett's demise. I mean, I wanted to make sure this would go down like a fine wine.

First, I had to finish my one-night stand with Faith (actually, it was more like a two-night stand, and there wasn't much standin' goin' on. . .). I left her more than satisfied, gave her my usual run-around 'bout how I didn't want to tie her down (tie her up, maybe . . .) and how she should share some of that sweetness with someone who could give her the time and love she deserved, and she actually walked away feelin' sorry for ME. Damn, I'm good.

Then, I had to set up the fall point. Well, all it took was another time of standin' around waitin' for him to finish talkin' to LoNigro, lettin' my eyes wander yet again over his notes. For a genius, he ain't too bright – leavin' his stuff out like that. I saw where he was headin' (wrong, as usual, but could see where he had the right general idea) and knew he was needin' the _Feynman Diagrams_ book. And I happened to still have the only copy the librarian was willin' to part with tucked away at my place for my own research. Perfect. I had been gettin' ready to return it, but now it would just have to wait since that left him with only the copy in the reference section of the library.

I lunched with Brandi a couple of times, making sure to point out Beckett sittin' across the cafeteria so she'd know what he looked like. I felt bad settin' her up like this, but she did owe me. After all, had it not been for me, she'd have not only been sent to jail but to the brig as well. What had she been thinkin' that night, tryin' to find 'business' on a Naval base? I felt sorry for her, she had looked so sweet and innocent and totally unprepared to get caught – least of all by a horny Italian coverin' for one of the guards that night. I had helped her out, tellin' the other guards she was my cousin from out of town (hey, if you can't keep it in your pants, keep it in the family, right?).

She had looked hesitant at first. I don't blame her – on the surface, Beckett looks like your stereotypical 'good kid'. Hell, who am I kiddin'? He made Opie look like Charles Manson with his 'sweet innocent' act. But that's all it was: an act. And I had to let her see that. Told her how he must be loaded to be at MIT for his fourth doctorate; how mommy and daddy must be footin' the bill. I mean, I knew he was smart, but no one was THAT smart – he had to be stayin' in school somehow, and since all I saw of him was at school, I doubted he had a job. Christ, that still bugged me. Here I am, workin' my ass off even with the money I got bein' NASA's poster boy and the Navy more than willin' to foot part of the bill to keep me quiet 'bout my time in 'Nam (like I'd WANT to talk about it . . .) and barely covering my expenses. (Of course, havin' a second ex-wife under my belt didn't help any).

Anyway, a couple of weeks passed, as I made sure Beckett was doomed to give me a pattern (he was the type, after all). I started watchin' his every move, waitin' for the perfect time. Hell, I even started going to the same gym to see how that fit into his pattern. Of course, all without him bein' too aware – I was an expert when it came to observation.

He had gone to the library 10 days in a row. He must REALLY want that book. It was inevitable he would go the next night as well. So, I called Brandi and let her know it was time to spring the trap. And to meet me that night to see how it was going.

I saw her walk in, sashaying her hips in a way to make Marilyn Monroe jealous, and patiently waited outside.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Jeez Louise, she must've been doin' him right there in the freakin' library! Man, the boy was hornier than I thought!

I checked my watch – 9:00. Almost time for her to 'check in' with me before she was off to meet her next client. And then I saw them walking out. She gave him a smile that made ME hard. I saw him take her hand, and then she kissed him like he was her brother or somethin'. I lit my cigar in anger as I saw them share a friendly hug. A FRIENDLY HUG? She's supposed to be SEDUCING him, for Christ's sake!

"You be good now," he said to her, and I cringed at the double meaning I was sure he intended by it. What was goin' on? Was she gonna meet him somewhere or somethin'?

"It'll be hard, but I'll try," she said, blowing him a kiss. Jesus H. Christ, I felt like I was watchin' a soap opera written by two old biddies or somethin'.

As she walked over to me, I took a puff of my cigar in relief. Finally. 'Bout time I found out what the hell happened.

I didn't even get a chance to say 'hello' when she SLAPPED me – HARD. "Al, you're a pig!" she yelled, and turned on her pretty little heel before I could say anything. I rubbed my stinging cheek in protestation and turned to see what Beckett was doin'. He was standing on the stairs to the library, tensed as though he had been ready to walk down, and our eyes met.

I saw his face contort in several different expressions as he tried to fathom out what happened for himself, and I saw the dark green eyes cloud as he put two and two together. Shit. So much for all those plans.

So . . . the kid somehow got around this trap. Maybe my ideas about him and LoNigro weren't so far off. I mean, what man in his right mind would ignore a fine piece of ass like Brandi? Maybe he felt the grass was greener on the other side of the playin' field . . . .

Either way, sex was obviously not gonna get him into trouble. Can't imagine why not – that's what usually got ME into trouble! So, what else could I do to him?

I found myself still looking into those deep pools called eyes, our gaze of comprehension turning into an all-out staring contest. And then I saw his thin mouth narrow as his jaw clenched in anger. He took a half step towards me, and my left hand unconsciously clenched in reflex at my side. He then looked down at his own hands, which were just as clenched, shook his head, turned, and walked back into the library. That cowardly putz!

I released a breath I didn't know I had held, shook out my hand, and headed back to my apartment. Thinking, the entire time, of Beckett and how to get him out of my system once and for all.

It came to me while I slept, like most of my good ideas. I didn't spend five years in a POW camp and not learn anything about torture, both physical and mental. And what was the one way to drive someone nuts who thought you were going to do something? Do absolutely NOTHING. After that look last night, I knew there was no way I could pretend that Brandi wasn't my idea. And so he would be expecting something from me. Nothin' like a little paranoia to drop a man's grades. So I stopped bein' quite so hidden in my observations. I started lettin' him see me at the gym, 'accidentally' showing up at the same diner for supper, be 'shocked' when it turned out he was going to the school play as well, be walking out of the record store he liked to shop at, and let him catch me walkin' past his dorm window at night.

And it was working. He started to flinch any time I would suddenly 'pop up' behind him. Those eyes of his that seemed to draw me in as easily as Beth's had started lookin' haggard and red, the bags under them worthy of takin' on a plane. He was jittery, anxious, tired. You could read it in his face – he was just waiting for me to spring my trap. But all I would do is flash him a smile of false friendship.

Then today came the kicker . . . he fell asleep in LoNigro's class. Probably coulda gotten away with it, 'cept he was snorin' away like there was no tomorrow and with that snozz of his . . . . Well, the whole class knew about it. Spence was less than pleased, to say the least.

I couldn't help myself. I walked up to the two of them after class as Sam was trying like hell to apologize to our teacher, and asked sweetly, in my most sincere 'honey I SWEAR you're the only one for me' voice, "Are you having trouble keepin' up, Beckett? I'd be more than happy to tutor you."

If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the little dig at ourselves of "watchin' a soap opera written by two old biddies or somethin'" is one of my favorite bits of this story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember in the pilot episode how Sam mentioned getting in trouble for streaking? And we finally add in the boxing element.

**Tuesday, March 29, 1977**

**SAM:**

Oh, God, this can't be happening again! It just can't be!

"Dr. Beckett, Dr. LoNigro . . . the Dean will see you now."

Sebastian stood, and helped me to my feet – my legs were still a bit shaky. "Thanks, Denise. What kind of mood is Josh in today?"

Denise Parker, assistant to the Dean of Student Affairs, just gave us a sigh and replied, "He was in a great mood – until a couple of hours ago."

Perfect. Just perfect. I took a deep cleansing breath, and steeled myself for my moment of reckoning.

Dean Joshua Edwards stood behind his massive mahogany desk and indicated the chairs positioned in front of it. Uh-oh . . . no offer of a handshake. This was getting worse by the minute.

All three of us sat down, and Dean Edwards got right down to business, "Gentlemen, we have a serious problem on our hands here." As LoNigro and Edwards began discussing – then arguing – my plight,I reran yesterday's horrible event in my head.

I never meant for it to happen . . . not like that event in the spring of 1974. Back then I was young and stupid and so desperate to fit in with my fellow students, to be 'normal' for one moment, that I had caved in to the pressure and actually streaked across the Brown University campus. It was the first and last time that I bowed to peer pressure. I was one of the half-dozen or so kids the campus police caught that day, and I was expelled from the medical school before I knew what had hit me. But this was a completely different situation.

I had gone to the Johnson Athletic Center to try to relax. The last couple of weeks had been the most stressful, most hectic of my life. Everywhere I looked HE was there – I couldn't even go to the bathroom without half-expecting Calavicci to suddenly pop out of the next stall, flashing me another one of his insincere smiles. I hadn't had a good night sleep in days as my mind raced continuously, wondering what the little pest was concocting.

Needless to say, my studies were suffering and I couldn't concentrate for five minutes on anything. My thesis sat, untouched, on my desk – I was too distracted to even begin working on it again. The ultimate humiliation happened earlier in the day when I actually fell asleep in LoNigro's class during his lecture. Then, as I was attempting to apologize to him afterwards, HE piped in with an offer to 'tutor' me!

When Hell freezes over, Calavicci!

Consequently, I was a wreck by the time I got to the gym. I just wanted to lose myself in my workout – sometimes it helps to clear my mind. And sometimes, it gives me inspiration. Either way, I'd at least be pushing my body to its brink instead of my brain, so I dived in with a vengeance.

First I ran a couple of laps to get my blood going, then it was over to the weight room. When I had bench-pressed enough so that I couldn't even raise my arms, I headed back to the main room and the boxing equipment. While not one of my specialties, I had found myself drawn more and more to it recently.

To work on my footwork, I picked up one of the jump ropes hanging on the wall. I was still getting the hang of jumping rope, but I was getting better at it the more practice I got. After about 10 minutes of that, I wrapped up my hands, put on a pair of training gloves, and started in on the heavy bag. I liked it better than the speed bag, and found I could really work out my frustrations – all I had to do was imagine every punch landing somewhere on Al's scrawny little body and I could go at it for hours!

It finally got to the point I could barely stand any longer. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but I was utterly exhausted. I figured I'd take a quick shower and head back to my room and crash for the day. Maybe I could wake up tomorrow with a new outlook on life.

I must've stood under that showerhead for a good 15 minutes . . . the hot water just felt so good on my sore muscles. Heck, it felt so satisfying, I almost fell asleep standing there! At that point, I knew I had had enough, so I grabbed a towel and went back to the locker room . . . .

And my stuff was gone. Everything. My gym bag, my clothes, my sneakers, my wallet, my dorm-room key . . . everything! Stupid me! In my preoccupied state, I must've forgotten to lock the rented locker. I stood there for a couple of moments, dazed. I looked around, thinking maybe I just had the wrong locker. I almost started to cry – this was the last straw! I didn't know how much more I could take.

I had only one thought on my mind – I had to get back to my rooms at McCormick House, which was across the quad. If I had been thinking straight, I would've just borrowed a dime and called someone to come get me. But I couldn't think straight anymore. It was a bit of a distance to the dorm, but I could make it easily, and I DID have the towel.

I poked my head out the door and noticed the quad was relatively deserted. Well, thankfully, most kids were still in class. Gathering all my nerve, I grabbed hold of my towel, and began my sprint.

I was making good time; I was also making a few new friends as the catcalls started flying. I blushed, but kept running – my goal, my only destination echoing in my head: home. It was damn cold but I was close, close enough that I could see it in the distance, calling to me . . . .

Unfortunately, I couldn't see the guy sprawled on the grass reading a textbook. I tripped over him and we both went ass-over-tea kettle. I belatedly realized it was that funny little guy I had been tutoring in computer programming, Wolfgang Gushman. He went by the nickname Gushie, and I would too, if my parents had slapped Wolfgang on me. A nice kid, even if his breath could choke a horse.

While I was scrambling to free myself, I somehow lost my only shred of modesty as the towel got caught under Gushie and was ripped from my body. I didn't stop long enough to try to get it back – I just grabbed the boy's textbook, covered my family jewels and kept going. If I thought the catcalls were embarrassing before, it was nothing to compare to what was coming up.

I didn't get very far – it was just my luck that the Metro Police decided to coast down Massachusetts Avenue at that exact moment. They tackled me 100 feet from my dorm and dragged me to their cruiser.

The next couple of hours were the most humiliating of my life. When we got to the station, they took all my personal information (they were kind enough to give me another towel so I could cover up some), let me make one call (I BEGGED Professor LoNigro to bring me some clothes), and they threw me in a holding cell. I guess I should be thankful that it had been a slow crime day – the only company I had was a drunk who was passed out on the cot.

When Sebastian finally showed up, I almost cried with joy. He had brought along one of his old jogging suits and, even though it hung on me like a sack, they were the most beautiful clothes I ever laid eyes on. He handed me some socks and a pair of his running shoes which I laced up as we explained to the chief what had happened and that I wasn't trying to 'disrupt the peace' with my 'public nudity'. After the cops had a good laugh at my expense, they dropped the charges and released me.

But now it appeared my ordeal was just beginning. Just when I thought I could put the embarrassing episode out of my head, I got called on the mat by Dean Edwards. Mr. By-The-Book himself. I had never had a run in with him before, but I knew of other students . . . they were never heard from again.

I couldn't imagine what he wanted to see me about, but I was scared. Not knowing where else to turn, I called Spence and asked if he'd come with me for moral support. The last thing I expected was the discussion going on right now.

"You can't expel him, Josh. He did nothing wrong!" my teacher was insisting now.

My head snapped up at that. _Expulsion. They were actually going to expel me! For something I didn't even do!_

"Sebastian, rules are rules. This institute has a rule against streaking . . . ."

_MIT has a rule against streaking, too? Ohhhh, boy!_

"A silly three year old rule," LoNigro interrupted. "About as useful as Prohibition."

"You know perfectly well why we were forced to include that rule in the handbook. That spring was crazy with all the streakers we had on campus, you remember?"

"But it hasn't been enforced in years!"

"Because we haven't HAD to enforce it. Dr. Beckett here is the first to break the rule in over two years."

I spoke up, "But . . . but I didn't break it. I was just trying to get back to my room. I had a towel . . ." I protested feebly.

"HAD a towel, Dr. Beckett," the Dean emphasized. "Look, the rules are quite clear on this." He opened the student by-laws to a marked off page and began reading, "'Any student engaging in the activity of streaking, that is, parading around the campus in a nude state, will be expelled, post wit.' It's not debatable, gentlemen."

"Please, let me explain," I implored. "I didn't mean to do it. My stuff was stolen. I was just trying to get back to my room. I was tired. I . . . I just haven't been myself lately."

"I can vouch for that, sir," my professor came to my aid. "He's been distracted lately – he's under a lot of stress with this new thesis he's presenting. And it's a doozy, Josh. He'll put this place on the map."

"It's already on the map, Dr. LoNigro," the Dean reminded us.

"Dean Edwards, please," I begged. "Please don't expel me. I'm so close with this one. Please, just let me finish the semester and you'll never hear from me again, I swear! You won't even know I'm here!"

"Josh, please be reasonable," Sebastian took up my cause. "Sam has never been in a lick of trouble before. He's an exemplary student and an even better human being. You can't just kick him out of school like this."

"Spence, my hands are tied on this issue . . . ."

"Fine. If he goes, you can find yourself another Physics instructor, because I'm going, too."

"SEBASTIAN!" I cried out. "NO!"

The Dean just rubbed a weary hand over his brow. "Doctor, please don't make threats. I'm not in the mood for them today." He opened one of his desk drawers and removed a bottle of aspirin; he then proceeded to pour a liberal amount of pills from the bottle into his hand and swallowed them without the help of any water. When I commented that kind of action was not good for his stomach, he gave me a dirty look.

"Well, you're leaving me little choice, Josh – Sam is not just my prized student, he's my friend, and I won't have him treated this way."

This was going from bad to worse. Not only was my life going down the tubes, but my closest friend was about to ruin his life as well. All because of me. I couldn't let him do that for me. I knew what I had to do, the only thing I COULD do.

"Professor LoNigro . . ." I hesitated. This was going to be difficult. MIT was like home to me, and Sebastian was like family to me now. "Dean Edwards is right. I broke the rules, and I have to take my punishment like a man."

"Sam . . . ." My friend tried to stop me, but I had to prevent him from making a huge mistake.

"No, Spence. I understand. It was my fault. Rules are there for a reason, and you can't ignore them just for me."

My teacher just shook his head sadly. "Aw, Sam, don't give up. We can fight this."

I turned grateful eyes to my mentor. I really was going to miss him. Then I addressed the Dean once more. "Can I at least have a couple of days, to get organized and try to think out where to go from here?"

"Sure, Doctor. Take as much time as you want."

A thousand thoughts flashed through my head. What was I going to do now? Where could I go? Certainly not home. Mom would be so disappointed in me . . . again. And I was so deep in debt, I'd never see sunlight again. Still, maybe SOME school would be willing to take a chance on me. I was so close to finishing my latest doctorate. There HAD to be a way.

Then it came to me. There was an instructor I had had in my first semester here. We had gotten along very well, until he left for a better position. And he was a good friend of Dr. LoNigro's. I knew Sebastian would give me a glowing letter of introduction; it was just a matter of contacting my former teacher. "Spence, do you still have Dr. Hamilton's phone number? Isn't he the head of the Physics department at Cal-Tech now?"

"CAL-TECH?!?" both LoNigro and Edwards exclaimed together.

"Yeah," I responded, warming to the idea. "I have some old friends and contacts there, and they've been wanting me to join them for awhile. This is as good a time as any. I'm sure Dr. Hamilton can help me finish my doctoral thesis. And Cal-Tech would just love to get back on the front pages of the Tech Journals again."

Another inspiration hit me. I turned to face my guru and gave him a huge smile. "Why don't you come with me, Sebastian?" I suggested. "I'm sure Cal-Tech would be able to find a spot on their faculty for someone as revered and honored as you."

Dean Edwards got as white as a ghost – I thought he was going to pass out on us. He reached a shaky hand back into his desk drawer and pulled out an industrial sized bottle of TUMS; he shook out a half-dozen tablets and began chewing on them furiously. "Ahhh, Dr. Beckett, Dr. LoNigro . . . let's not do anything too hasty, now," he began. "After all, those rules are not carved in stone . . . ."

++++++++

Academic probation. Two of the sweetest sounding words in the English language.

When we got outside the Administration Building, and were well out of earshot, Sebastian turned to me, the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. "I can't believe you just DID that!"

I bowed my head, a smirk of my own crossing my lips. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just telling him my future plans, that's all."

He gave a hearty chuckle, "That's all, he says! Bullshit! You really jerked his chain, Sam."

"I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't let you quit because of me, Spence."

Chuckling again, he shook his head slowly, "You know something, Beckett . . . you never stop amazing me." He gave me a big bear hug. "It's good to have you back, kid." I returned the hug, eagerly. Sebastian was the closest thing to a father I had now that my own dad was no longer with us. I loved spending time with this man, and knowing I was as special to him as he was to me.

"I . . . I can't thank you enough Spence – not just for getting me out of jail, but also for what you did for me in there just now. I don't know what I would've done without you."

We broke apart, but he clasped my face in his big, strong hands and looked deep into my eyes, saying, "Well, you owe me one now. You can pay me back by handing in the best damn thesis that review board has ever seen – and set this rinky-dinky institution on its ear!"

"You got it, sir."

His gentle eyes twinkled as he tenderly patted my cheek. "You've been given another chance, Sam. Try to stay out of trouble."

"I'm gonna do my best, Spence."

As we were walking across the quad, he asked me, "Do you want to stop by my office and I'll help you work on your paper?"

I kinda shrugged, responding, "That's kind of you . . . but I think I wanna go run a few laps first. It helps me relax. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, I understand – you've had a rough morning. If anyone needs to unwind a bit, but Sam?"

"Yeah?"

He gave me a big smile. "Try to keep your clothes on this time."

I laughed, "You don't have to worry about that anymore, Spence. I promise."

 


	6. Chapter 6

**AL:**

". . . and then I looked up and said, 'Bingo, Bango, Bongo'."

"You never cease to amaze me, Al." ( _R_ _ing, ring._ ) "I mean, triplets?" ( _Ring, ring._ ) "Yeah, Professor LoNigro's. May I help you? Whoa, who is this? What? . . . You're where? . . . You did WHAT? . . . Okay, okay, I'll be right over . . . . Yeah, I'll be sure to bring some . . . . Okay! Just calm down, kid . . . . No, you won't get me into trouble . . . . I'll be right there, okay? . . . All right. Bye."

Spence hung up the phone and turned back to me. "Sorry, Al . . . or should I call you Bingo now? But I've got a bit of an emergency with one of the other students. You understand."

He seemed so distressed, I offered, "Anything I can do to help?"

"I'm sure you've done enough."

His sarcastic tone threw me. "Excuse me?"

I followed him into his bedroom as he started digging through his drawers, throwing some sweat pants and a shirt on his bed. "It's Sam Beckett. He was thrown in jail for causing a public disturbance. I'm sure you had a hand in it somewhere. But I didn't think even you would go this far."

"Causing a public disturbance? What'd he do?" I ignored the insult to my reputation to alleviate my curiosity.

He grabbed a knapsack off his bureau and dumped out its contents. "He was supposedly caught running across the quad naked."

"He streaked? He streaked and I missed it? In MARCH? Brrr!"

"I guess you could consider it streaking. Apparently, someone stole all his clothes while he was working out at the gym . . . ." He bent down into his closet and dug out an old pair of sneakers.

"Hey, I've been with you all day. I wasn't even near Johnson's . . . ."

He stood up and addressed me, "Ha! How did you know which gym he was at?"

"I go there because it's a better facility than duPont's and I've seen him there, too. C'mon Spence, you know me. If I had any part of gettin' Beckett into trouble, I'd be more than proud to admit it. Part of me wishes I had thought it up. But, unfortunately I didn't."

He grabbed up all his gear and threw it into the knapsack. "I'm still trying to figure out what you have against him. If you two would try to work together, I bet there wouldn't be anything you couldn't accomplish." He turned back to his bureau and pulled out a pair of athletic socks as I debated what to say. This whole thesis thing was my problem – no reason to drag Spence into it yet. I was sure Beckett stole it without his knowledge.

"It's personal, Spence. He . . . he just gets under my skin, that's all."

Zipping up the bag, he gave me a withering look and sighed, "Well, I gotta go bail him out of jail. And I doubt he'd want to see YOU. So, I'll catch you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure, yeah, okay . . . ." And if he thought I wouldn't see this little escapade out to its finish, monkeys will fly outta my ass!

++++++++

A quick call to Dean Edwards the next day assured me that Beckett would at least get called in to discuss his 'streaking' incident. I knew the Dean was a stickler for the rules, and despite the rule being three years old, I also knew he was the anal retentive type who would follow the rules no matter how out of date or silly (I should know, having to fight tooth and nail myself for the one on 'adultery' that was older than Edwards and myself put together). As I waited outside to see the results of my call, I pondered this uncontrollable desire to get Beckett. Was Spence right? Was I going too far with this one? I hadn't lied when I told Spence he got under my skin. Seems all I could do was think about HIM, day in and day out. He even filtered into my dreams.

I just needed him gone. If he wasn't around, I could focus on my women, my work, and my life. And thoughts of him would delightfully go away.

And then he and Spence came out of the Dean's office, laughing of all things. Damn. Must've gotten around the rule somehow. I quickly ducked behind a bush (and the pervert in me wondered briefly if I would forever be associating Beckett with bushes) and watched the two, trying to figure out how Beckett got out of this one.

"You really jerked his chain, Sam." My eyebrow shot up at that line, my dirty mind coming up with an interesting scenario as to what exactly Beckett was doin' to the Dean. Funny, didn't think Edwards swung that way (quite honestly, didn't think Edwards swung ANY way).

"I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't let you quit because of me, Spence," said the wonder boy. Spence had threatened to quit? Over that . . . that snot-nosed KID? Maybe there was more to their relationship than met the eye.

But then I about had a fit when Spence returned with, "You never stop amazing me," and HUGGED the bastard. The anger at this . . . this familiarity between my friend and . . . and . . . and HIM seethed to the forefront. Oh, if he thought I had gone too far then, just wait until he saw what I came up with NOW.

I listened some more; he was thankful for whatever Spence did for him. Hmmm. There was DEFINITELY more to this than met the eye. But when I saw Spence gaze down into those dark green eyes, the anger nearly overwhelmed me and I couldn't take it any more! How DARE he? I turned and stalked away before I did something I'd regret, like pummel that bastard Beckett into a bloody pulp.

++++++++

I was pacing around outside Spence's doorstep, waiting for him to come back. I HAD to know what was going on between those two. I thought I had calmed down, but when I saw him walking up the path, I practically pounced on him and bellowed, "What the HELL was that?"

"Al, what are you doing at my house at this time of day?" he responded calmly, unlocking the front door and leading us inside. "I know I said I'd see you today, but shouldn't you be in class right now?"

I thought I was going to explode. "Fuck the class, Spence! I'm your friend, and as your friend, I have to ask what the hell you think you're doing with Beckett!"

"What ARE you talking about? I bailed him out of jail and then I helped to make sure he stayed in school."

"I saw you two – you were HUGGING!" I spat out the word. "Spence, listen to me, the kid ain't worth it. You know how much trouble you'd get in if they found out you're screwin' around with a student?"

I don't know if he was more stunned or outraged at my accusation. "Screwing around with a . . . . You mean Sam? Calavicci, that is the biggest crock of shit I . . . ." He paused, taking a breath. "Sam's a nice kid, an excellent student, a great friend, and so innocent I'd have to wonder if he even KNOWS guys can have sex together. And as for me . . . . Christ, Al, I'm about as gay as you are!"

That statement brought me up short. By the tone of his voice, I could tell he was trying to make a point about his heterosexuality, but he didn't know about Alan. Or Gary. Or Steve. All one-night stands, true, but all guys nonetheless. I kept my trap shut about them, knowing the only reason the Navy didn't officially recognize my 'aberrant' lifestyle was because I was a good poster boy for them and they didn't want the bad press about one of their golden boys ridin' both sides of the fence.

Hence my marriage to Inga (and subsequent divorce when she caught me with Vinny – talk about embarrassing divorce proceedings). After that little fiasco, I changed. I came to realize I needed the Navy too much at this point to risk their wrath over my sexual practices, and so I focused my efforts on just the feminine side of the world.

Which made this whole thing with Beckett even more frustrating. Usually, when I get this pissed about something, I'd just bang the first broad I could bag until my frustration calmed down. But he even affected THAT, which really got me mad at him.

"But . . ." I stammered. "But what about all the time you two spend together? Especially up at your cabin?"

Heaving a huge sigh, he explained, "Al, I spend about as much time with him as I do with you! And there's nothing sexual going on between us, right?" He didn't give me a chance to answer when he continued, "Sam is a friend, that's all. Just because he comes up to my cabin with me . . . . For crying out loud, is THAT where all your anger towards him is coming from? Jealousy? I thought you were above that kind of thing. If I had known that, I would've invited you up."

Jealous? He thinks I'm jealous? Of BECKETT? Well, okay, maybe just a little. He still drove me nuts: with his casual way of doing homework, of his reputation with the teachers, of the way he seemed to do no wrong. No one could be that perfect. No one.

And I thought Spence would understand that. After all, we were about the same age. And he was a friend. And we had a lot in common, idea-wise. But no, looked like I was still waitin' for that person that would understand me.

"Jealous?" I finally sputtered out. "Ha! I'm not jealous of that . . . that . . . that nozzle!" I felt my anger rising and took a step back, not wanting to project my rage at Beckett towards the one person in this world I thought I could call a friend. I had to get rid of this fury before I hurt someone. I could go get drunk – that worked sometimes. Or maybe I'd go find Faith. Yeah, that would be one way I could get back at the boy wonder. Wait a minute – she was doing some kind of internship somewhere. DAMN!

"Oh, just forget about it!" I yelled and started to stomp off. "If you want to find me, I'll be at the gym!" If I couldn't screw my way out of this frustration, I could at least channel it into some exercise. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . I could get the frustration down to something that would give me an idea of how to get Beckett out of my system once and for all.

"That's a good idea, Al – go to the gym." I turned back to look at him, and he had the biggest smile on his face. "Maybe you can finally work off some of that angry energy."

"Damn straight!" And I stormed off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behind the scenes fun: the line "Part of me wishes I had thought it up" is because the idea to have Sam streak WAS originally my idea, but J.D. (rightfully) reminded me that streaking was no longer happening at the time period we set this in. 
> 
> However, by the time I came up with the alternate I used in the prior chapter (of Al doing absolutely nothing), she had run with it anyway. 
> 
> So, I threw that in as a mini dig at that. ;-)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get ready to RUMBLEEEEEEEEEEE!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boxing-related violence (and some minor deviousness by Al) in this chapter. Nothing worse than what was in "The Right Hand of God" episode.

** SAM: **

I got to the Johnson Athletic Center a little after 3:00 p.m. After making sure my locker was DEFINITELY locked this time, I headed off to the track. The rhythmic pumping of my legs, the simple repetition of movement, soon had me in a zone – a nice, peaceful mood. I only intended to go my usual ten laps, but I was enjoying the way that the slow burn in my calves and the heaviness in my chest were carrying my mind away. If I concentrated just on the pain, I could blot out everything else.

I kept it up as long as I could, another five laps or so, until I finally had to quit. I sat down by the track, drinking from a water bottle, watching the other runners go through their warm-up stretches, and thinking. About Spence, about my thesis, about my close call this afternoon . . . about Al.

Al? What the hell was HE doing in my thoughts? I took a quick look around, out of instinct, but he was nowhere to be found, for a change. Thank goodness. This sudden obsession I had with Al and his mind-games was very disturbing to me, and it had to stop. 

Thanks to him, I had lost valuable time on my presentation – time I'm sure he used to his advantage, running away with my thesis. If I was going to beat him at his own game, I had to start knuckling down and getting some serious work done. There was only so far LoNigro could take me; the rest of it had to come from my own sweat and tears.

No one knew that better than me.

I looked up at the clock – it was almost 4:00. Since I was to meet Spence at 5:00 in the dining hall for something to eat before we headed back to his place for the night, I figured I still had time to get in some of my boxing exercises. I finished off the water and headed to the main fitness room.

And whom should I find there, working on the smaller heavy bag, but – THE JERK. He was wearing an old baby blue NASA T-shirt, like he felt the need to advertise it. Or at least I THINK it was baby blue . . . he was bathed in so much sweat, the shirt was almost navy blue. And by his ragged breathing and slow reflexes, it appeared he was about ready to drop. Well, that's what a geriatric like him gets for trying to act his shoe size instead of his REAL age. I carefully wrapped my hands with ACE wraps, grabbed a pair of gloves, and headed over to the larger heavy bag. 

It didn't take him long to notice me. I had just started my workout, wishing that it was HIM hanging from the hook instead of the bag, when I heard a "Ppppttthhh" from his general direction. I glanced over at him; he was standing there, hands on his hips, watching me. "Nice technique," he scoffed. 

"Got a problem with it?" I asked, as I threw an upper cut. 

He sighed, "Where do I EVEN begin?"

"What would YOU know about it?"

"I was Golden Gloves champ of New York City . . . THAT'S what I know about it!"

"Oh, please, you expect me to believe that? When do you fit that into your busy schedule – between Apollo missions?"

"As a matter of fact, it was in 1950 – you can check it out for yerself."

I threw a one-two at the mid-section and commented, "1950, huh? That was three years before I was born." Heck, might as well rub it in.

That puzzled him. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. Just stating a fact." I indicated his worn-out appearance, adding, "Maybe time is catching up with you, that's all."

"Time ain't ever gonna catch me!" he declared defiantly.

I stopped my routine and looked over at him. "Don't know about that, Calavicci. Looks like it's doing a pretty good job so far."

He narrowed his eyes and glared at me, "Want me to prove it to you?"

"That sounds like a challenge, old man."

"You up to it, punk?" he sneered.

"I can take anything you can dish out."

He just smirked, "Yeah, that's what they all say." He started heading over to the ring that was set up in the middle of the room, grabbing a couple of protective helmets along the way. He turned and threw one to me.

That's when I realized he was serious, and that made me nervous. Oh, not that I believed that thing about the Golden Gloves for one second, but I had never actually been in a real fight. All my boxing had been in theory only, with inanimate objects. I've never in my life hit another human being before (unless you count the scrapes I used to have with my older brother, Tom). But then again, this was Al Calavicci . . . and he had stopped being a human being a long time ago. I strapped the helmet on and climbed into the ring.

He was already bouncing around on the balls of his feet, punching his gloves against each other. As he was jumping around, I noticed the dog tags around his neck . . . Tom's dog tags. The ones that were in my gym bag when my stuff disappeared from the locker room. SHIT! The bastard was the one who stole my stuff yesterday! "Where the hell did you get those?" I asked, angrily pointing to the chain around his neck. "Those are my brother's . . . ." 

"And what the hell would I be doing with them?" he asked, coolly.

"As if you didn't know – they were stolen with my stuff yesterday."

"Oh, you mean when you gave the campus a free show? You think I took your stuff?"

"I wouldn't put anything past you." 

"Look, Beckett – I'm a lot of things, but a thief ain't one of them." He held them out for my inspection, and I saw they were indeed stamped, 'Calavicci, Albert F.' and I wondered briefly what the 'F' stood for."These were gotten the hard way," he continued, "in 'Nam. And you woulda gotten some, too, if you weren't a chicken shit draft dodger."

"I wasn't a draft dodger. I was exempt because my brother died over there," I said, the anguish seeping throughout my voice.

"And this is the way you honor him? By hiding out in school for a decade, with all your other peace-lovin' hippy friends?"

I took another step towards him, my anger growing by the second. "You don't know a thing about ME, Calavicci."

"Au contraire, I've known people like you all my life. Lily-livered, pampered pretty-boys that think if they don't get to pop Muffy's cherry on prom night it's a major fuckin' crisis."

By now I was chin to chin with him. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time."

Glowering at me with those midnight black eyes, he snarled, "I've been LIVING for this moment. I'm gonna enjoy kicking the crap outta you, Beckett."

He pushed me backwards until I was about an arms-length – or a punch-length away – and began that damn dancing around again. I figured if he wasn't going to start this match, it was up to me. I took a hesitant swing and connected with his shoulder, but I still wasn't sure about this fight. I mean, Calavicci was a pain in the ass, and it's not like he didn't deserve to be pummeled, but violence never solved anything.

"You call that a punch?" he mocked. "I've had stronger punches at wedding receptions."

I gave another slight jab at his dancing figure, not wanting him to think I was chicken, but also refusing to let him bait me. I managed to hit his upper arm this time, but I thought he was going to burst out in laughter.

"Oh, give me a break. The way you're prancing around the place, acting like a big, powerful fighter and you give me this shit? A Girl Scout could do better than that."

Okay, I changed my mind. Perhaps in Calavicci's case, violence wasn't such a bad thing. I gave a swift right uppercut to his face with as much muscle behind it as I could.

All he did was wipe his nose with his glove, dance back, and reply, "That's more like it, Beckett. I wanted to make sure you got your chance before I wiped the floor with you."

I let loose with a few quick jabs, all of which he successfully blocked. He actually seemed able to anticipate where my next blow was coming from. I started to wonder if maybe my original assessment of his boxing abilities was as correct as I thought. But even if he DID win that Golden Gloves title, it was over 25 years ago . . . I could still take him.

My thoughts were brought up short by his fist flying at my face. I ducked, right into his other fist heading for my side. "Ooof."

"Ah, whazza matter? Didn't see that one coming?" I raised my head to look at him, dancing along the edges of my field of vision, and decided the hell with non-violence. Calavicci was going down, and going down hard! 

I charged towards him, but he jumped to the side in an odd parody of a bullfighter, letting me run into the ropes. When I untangled myself from the ropes and turned to face him again, he proceeded to fire off another couple of punches on my chest and sides.

I threw him a right hook and smiled as I felt it crunch against the side of his head. "That's it, old man. I've had about enough of you," I cursed, and let fly a one-two combo that smashed into his ribs. I threw them hard enough that he should've been gasping in pain; but not only was the bastard still standing, he actually had an odd little smile on his face as he danced backwards.

"So, Beckett. You're not a Girl Scout after all." He reached down to adjust his cup, and the smile got wider. "By the way, how's Faith?"

"What?" I wasn't sure I had heard right.

"I asked, how's Faith?" he smirked.

What did SHE have to do with anything? "How would *I* know?"

"Oh yeah, that's right. I'M the one who got to ball her." I advanced on him quickly when he said that, but both of my punches went whizzing through empty space as he yet again danced away from me.

"Don't talk about her like that," I said, trying not to let my anger get control of me.

"She was great, Sammy boy. Nice ass – nice titties. She fucked my brains out."

Fine. If that was the way he wanted it, two people could play this little game. "That shouldn't have taken too long," I sputtered.

He just watched me with those black eyes of his, and continued with his obnoxious sex story. "She was so tight, I could barely stuff my whole cock up her soaking wet coozy. But once I did, oh man, she rode me for hours! She was SO HOT for me, Sammy . . . she couldn't keep her hands off me."

"STOP IT, YOU PIG!" I yelled at him, trying to shut out the disgusting things he was saying. "She's young enough to be your daughter!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe so. But she was old enough to know how to please a REAL man . . . many, many times."

"Are you going to fight, or talk?" I demanded, as I tried a few more jabs, which he deftly avoided.

"Oh, I can do both, Beckett." And he proved it by hitting me in the ribs. I tried to move away, but he followed me and continued with his pornographic narrative. "You know what I liked doing best? She gave the best tit-fuck I've ever had."

I tried so hard not to listen, but I had no choice. His words kept echoing in my ears. "You ever do that, kid? Slide your cock between a couple of luscious C cups like that? She was pinching those hard little nipples of hers and screaming to the heavens! Oh, yeah, Sammy . . . she's quite loud when she fucks. But then, you'll never know that. And the only way I could shut her up was to shoot my jizz in her mouth, which she just lapped . . . ."

"JUST SHUT UP! I'm sick of hearing your lies!" I flayed away at him, happy when I connected with a few punches – ANYTHING to get him to get him to stop.

But NOTHING would stop him. "She was almost as good as Brandi – but then, NO ONE could be as good as Brandi." He paused for a moment, before adding, "Oh, yeah, that's right . . . you didn't get to fuck her either, huh? Oh, Sammy, you don't know what you missed. Brandi is such a great piece of tail – best 20 bucks I ever spent." I threw an uppercut that thwapped him across the jaw, but all he did was grin at me.

"Just quit it! Stop talking about Brandi!" I was getting madder by the moment, and there was nothing I wanted more than to wipe the smug smile off his face.

"Awww, isn't that sweet? You're coming to the whore's defense. The Prodigy and the Prostitute. There's gotta be a fairy tale in there somewhere."

By this time, I was so angry I couldn't even comment, and my form had been shot to hell. A few of his punches got through my defenses and my head snapped back as he gave a good left hook.

We had been dancing around the ring, and I now found myself trapped against one of the turnbuckles. He took advantage of my entrapment to share something personal with me. "I fucked her up the ass, Sam," he whispered confidentially. " You ever do that? Huh? Shove your hard dripping cock up some little girl's hiney? Go up the ol' Hershey Highway? Ain't nothin' on earth quite like fucking a nice, sweet, tight ass – and Brandi's got the sweetest ass in North America."

"JUST SHUT YOUR GODDAM MOUTH!!" I shouted, and attempted to slug my way out of my predicament. Unfortunately, all my shots missed. Even more unfortunate, his didn't. A left and another right, and I felt the blood trickling down from my nose.

"Wow, you must really like her," he said, sympathetically. "Seems I hit a sore spot." At that point, I wasn't sure if he was talking about Brandi or my nose, which was quite sore now. I tried throwing a couple more punches, but I was so rattled now all I was doing was fighting blind and he easily avoided my fists.

"You just stay away from her!" I threatened.

"Yeah, like she'll ever take my calls again. I mean, what the hell is wrong with you anyway, Beckett? You went and ruined a perfectly good hooker!"

Anger turned to fury, and in my blind rage I was able to get in a quick couple of hits on his face. "Unlike you, I have morals, ethics – scruples." I gave an internal cringe as another uppercut connected with his face and blood started to trickle down his mouth. I was upset he had gotten to me – those visions he had planted were so far in my head, I couldn't shake myself free.

But I was more upset that I ENJOYED the sight of his blood, and I wanted to see more. This was so unlike me. What the hell was Calavicci DOING to me?

He brought his glove up and wiped at some of the blood. "Yeah, well, I can't afford to have morals and ethics. I didn't get as far as I did with scruples. I'm here today because of my guts and my wits."

"Gee, then it's a wonder you're still alive," I replied, sarcastically.

"No, more like a fucking miracle," he muttered.

I took that moment when he seemed to be distracted to push him violently into the ropes. This was my chance to win, to beat him like the dog he was. As he flew back at me, I swung out with a left cross that connected right in the diaphragm. He doubled over in pain . . . good.

My left hand grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up to face me; my right was drawn back for the knock out punch. It was time to avenge Faith, and Brandi . . . and Tom. "How the fuck did someone like you survive the war, while other people, good people like my brother, DIED over there?"

He just gave me a defiant stare and spit out, "Maybe because he wasn't smart enough to get captured by the enemy." He angrily slammed his right fist into my left side. "Maybe he wasn't intelligent enough to spend five years in a tiger cage, living on rain water and maggot infested rice." And he slammed his left fist into my right side. "Maybe he was just too fucking stupid to know how much fun living in a POW camp was – not knowing when you woke up in the morning if you'd still be alive by sunset, not knowing if you were going to be chosen to be the enemy's 'mistress' for the day, not knowing if you'd go insane before you were rescued . . . IF you'd be rescued!"

I let my guard completely down as the shock of what he just said overwhelmed me, but he wasn't finished with me yet. "Or believing with all your heart your wife still loved you and that belief, that love, kept you going . . . day after day. Then, when you finally get home, you learn she never believed you were alive and had married another man."

My hands dropped down, my mouth opened, and I just stared. I tried to say something, but nothing came to me. He gave me one more deadly look. "Or maybe he was just a chicken shit . . . just like his little brother."

I never saw the punch that landed below my solar plexus . . . much lower. I collapsed in more pain than I had never experienced before, more than I thought possible. Thank God I had worn a cup today! As I lay on the canvas, gasping for breath, I looked up at my tormentor. "You can't do that!" I choked out, indignantly. "It's not fair!"

He just laughed at me. "Fair? Life ain't fuckin' fair, kid. The sooner you learn that, the better off you'll be!"

"But it's against the rules!" I persisted.

"Rules are for pussies, Beckett. Just remember, if you ain't cheatin', you ain't tryin' and it's only cheatin' if you get caught." He leaned down and offered me a hand up, which I refused; I struggled to my feet on my own.

"That's a shitty philosophy, Al."

"Sorry if I've offended," he said, mock humility oozing out of him, "but it works for me. Don't forget – good guys finish last, Sam. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna finish last."

I just glared at him. "Oh, I can't think you'd EVER have to worry about THAT, Calavicci." Then with my last shred of dignity, I climbed out of the ring.

"You got a lot to learn, Beckett," he called after me.

I turned back to him and vowed, "This isn't over yet, Calavicci – not by a long shot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Yes, we know $20 for a hooker is very cheap - even for the 70s. That's the point of that insult. ;-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - had to get my driver's license renewed this morning. 
> 
> Head's up: more violence from Al (although again, nothing you don't normally see on TV), and we finally transition (somewhat) into the sexual aspect. J.D. was so glad I handled this transition.

**AL:**

I stood in the ring, watching him walk out, and tried to get a handle at the fury that still gripped me. At least I could feel a little justification that I had brought him to nearly the same level of anger, and I was more than a little proud that I had gotten him so worked up. How dare he, how DARE he stand there and give ME that attitude regarding the WAR! I had enough of it from normal civilians (Christ, I never had felt so guilty for just plain surviving than I did when I first returned from 'Nam), but comin' from a coward that decided to go to school while his brother died in his place, THAT was goin' too far.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. This was getting ridiculous. There were times, mostly when I had too much Jack Daniels,when I knew the ferocious power of my anger was dangerous – when I was literally scared it would kill. Thankfully, those times were few and far between, but my Italian temper could really fly when I gave it free reign.

Like I did in that ring.

I hadn't meant to get so worked up; and I had thrown that last punch even before I was consciously aware of what I was doin'. All I knew was that it had started as a simple fight, a simple way to prove who was the better man. Like I had to worry – watchin' him hit the bag, I saw he couldn't hit the barn side of a broad!

Hell, I even made sure he got in the first few punches, knowing full well that once I got goin', he would have a better chance of winnin' a beauty pageant than of beatin' me. I could tell he had never had to hurt someone, never had been in a situation of kill or be killed, was beyond naïve when it came to the necessities of violence. And that naïveté would be his downfall, for when you've been violent you know your limits. Like I did.

So I started to taunt him. Reminded him of my ability to get the girl HE had wanted into the sack. And maybe let him know some of the things Faith was capable of. He was quick to anger, just like I predicted, sputtering out his outrage at my colorful story.

I guess some would think it kind of sweet and chivalrous, the way he wanted to 'fight for her honor'. Me? I just saw it as a weakness to exploit – and boy, did I ever! I was able to get in a few hits while he was dealing with this new emotion of anger, and before I was aware of it, I was spoutin' more pornography than the entire city of Amsterdam.

Seein' his reaction to Faith, I decided to up the ante and bring in Brandi, even though I didn't honestly know what it was like to slip between those sweet cheeks of hers. Believe it or not, I can be 'just friends' with a woman.

I had gotten in a few more punches, reveling in the anger I could feel radiating off him. Breaking him down like that was almost worth the hell he been puttin' me through, almost worth the effort of dealin' with him face to face.

And then he had to say he had ETHICS? The kid went and stole my thesis and he had the cahones to call me up on ethics?

Then, THEN he had to go and ask why I survived 'NAM? Suddenly, the anger I had been feelin' towards him boiled over and that control I was so proud of broke down, and the next thing I knew I was tellin' him things that even the Navy wasn't able to drag outta me. He had no right, NO RIGHT, to use that high-n-mighty attitude when it came to the WAR! I was alive by the skin of my teeth and I sure as hell knew it, and I had a right to every single day I could breathe good air, choose what I ate, sleep comfortably, and knowing, realizing I was free.

And the fist was aiming for the place I always hit when the damn guards made us fight in the Hanoi Hilton; where it didn't matter whether you fought fair or not, all that mattered was that you won – for the losers suffered a fate that was definitely worse than death.

I felt a twinge of guilt as I saw him on the mat, gasping for breath, a look of utter shock on his face. I wasn't sure whether it was because of what I had said or what I had done, but my guilt rapidly disappeared as he told me it wasn't 'fair'. Oh, like life was ever fair to me? Like it was fair that Beth never waited, or Charlie decided my life could use a few years stuck in that hell, or that my mother had run off, or that Trudy . . . .

He said it wasn't over, and I recognized the look in his face. I'd seen it often enough staring back at me out of a mirror. He had been introduced to the harsh realities of life and was now finding out things like hatred and violence had a place in this world and in him.

I stormed off to the locker room, hoping I had given him enough time to clear the hell out. Lucky for him, he wasn't there. I mean who knew WHAT I'd do to him now?

Maybe exactly what I did to the young man who WAS in there – the one who was trying to break into my locker. Stupid idiot! He couldn't have picked a worse day to fuck with me. "What do you think you're doing?" I asked, my voice very calm, very straight . . . very scary. The voice that people who knew me would recognize as the one that meant business.

The guy turned to me and I made an instant assessment of him and his abilities. He was a little taller than me, in that odd stage between skinniness and in shape that you come across every once in a while. He looked about 18 and his face still had scars from teenaged acne than must've been a nightmare for him. His dark hair was about the same color as mine and hung down to his shoulders.

"Uh . . ." he started, brilliantly, and seemed to realize that it was my locker he was currently trying to break into without me having to say a word. He turned and attempted to escape, but he never had a chance as I jumped over the benches that scattered the floor and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

I brought him around and slammed him against the wall of lockers. "I asked you a question," I said, my voice still very calm despite my violent actions. "What do you think you were doing with that locker? I want an answer, punk," I continued, punctuating my point by shoving him again against the wall. "And believe me," I finished, holding him tight against the locker with my arm, "I will know if you're lying. What the fuck were you doing to my locker?"

"N . . . n . . . nothing," he stuttered, infuriating me. As I pushed him once more into the lockers, trying to shake an answer from him, I felt something hard and familiar against my wrist. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled it open, its buttons flying across the room, to reveal a chain around his neck. A chain that held dog tags.

"What the hell is a loser like you doin' with dog tags?" I scooped them up in my hand intending to find out the name of this punk, only to end up laughing at the irony of the situation: they were the tags Sam had accused me of stealing. "Beckett, Thomas J." I read out loud, studying the rest of the information on the tiny metal discs (huh, never woulda taken the Becketts for Baptists). I slammed the skinny kid into the lockers harder than before, snarling, "Where'd you get these, prick, cause I know they ain't yours."

"I . . . I . . . I . . . ." The kid was terrified, and damn well he should be.

"Where," I started, giving the kid a slight shake, "did" I continued, pushing my forearm under the little shit's chin, "you" I added, snatching at the chain in such a way that the back of it was digging into his neck, "get these?" I finished, tearing the tags off his neck.

"Al, what's going on in here?" I heard someone call out behind me. Turned out to be Louis, the day manager of the gym.

"Kid was tryin' to break into my locker," I explained. "And he's probably gotten into some others, too." I took him by the shoulders and gave him a shove towards Lou. "Take out this trash, would ya? Or I'll be forced to do it myself." And with that, I headed into the shower stall, wondering what else could happen to me.

As the warm water started to massage my muscles (Beckett had gotten in a few good punches, I had to give him that), I tried to forget the asshole in the locker room and instead went back over the fight in my head, analyzing each move for future reference.

My hand slowly strayed down as my memories of the fight flooded into my mind's eye. And without even realizing it, my cock had become hard under my ministrations. My other hand was at my chest, caught in that odd line between soaping myself and playing with myself, and as I replayed each punch in Beckett's face, my hand gave a related stroke to my quivering organ. Punch, stroke, punch, stroke; the fight becoming a warped dance of an erotic nature as my hands gave me a pleasure I hadn't found in a long time. Faster, the fists were flying now, and I let out a silent groan of delicious agony as both battles were won at the same time, my cum splaying the cool tiles in front of me.

Jesus H. Christ! What in the hell did I just DO? I had some odd fantasies in my time (don't even ask about the one involving feathers and tutus), but I had never, ever, in my entire 30-odd years of bein' sexually active gotten off while thinkin' of a FIGHT. True, I would occasionally start a fight with my current conquest just so I could have the joys of 'making up', and true, the fast and furious verbal assaults I experienced with Beckett were similar to the kinds of things I usually would use to start those fights, but it was always on the playful side – and I was nowhere NEAR thinkin' of Beckett in a playful way.

Yet I couldn't deny what had just happened. The cum was slowly sliding down the tiles in a harsh reminder of my recent activities, and as if that wasn't enough, my cock was perking his head up as my thoughts ran back to Beckett: his face, his smile, his eyes, his . . . . Fuck a duck! I did not find him desirable. No way. Uh-huh. I felt nothin'. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

But even as I tried to convince myself, my hand had strayed back to my cock and gave it a slight stroke on each punctured thought. And this time, my mind did not think of the fight, but conjured up an image of the 'making up' we could do.

SHIT! There I went, losing control once again. Was THAT why I hated him? Damn straight I lost control around him. And that, for me, was a dangerous thing. A very dangerous thing. I quickly finished the job and even quicker finished the shower. As I got redressed, I vowed even further that I would do whatever it took to get him out of my system. I just had to figure out how.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and on 'count the references to the show', add in, "he would have a better chance of winnin' a beauty pageant than of beatin' me". And I have to admit: I love the insult 'he couldn't hit the barn side of a broad!'


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving!

**SAM:**

Once I got a look at my face in the locker room mirror, I knew there was no way I was going to be meeting Spence for dinner. 'Sides, I think if I put anything in my stomach for the next few hours, I'd probably puke it up. I just grabbed my things and ran; well, as much as I could run in my current condition. I had a feeling my privates were going to be aching for days.

DAMN HIM!

When I got back to the dorm, I gave Spence a quick call and told him I had overdone it the gym (now THERE'S an understatement) and I'd catch up with him soon.

Then I dragged myself back to my rooms and into the shower, where I surveyed the damage.

The bruises were already darkening on both sides of my rib cage – the bastard got in a few good punches, I'll give him that; even muscles I didn't KNOW I had were aching. As for the 'low-blow', everything LOOKED okay, just very, very tender. They didn't get used often but I WAS still attached to them. I carefully cupped my abused organs and gently washed them, grimacing at the combined pain and pleasure.

I stood under the water, as hot as I could stand it, for a long time – just washing away the blood and sweat, and trying to soothe my sore body. When the water started cooling down, I reluctantly shut it off. Back in my bedroom, I toweled myself dry and changed into Spence's old jogging suit. I was glad I hadn't returned it to him yet – it was big and comfortable and quite baggy in the crotch, which was just what I needed. Sitting on my bed, I started to think, and to stew.

I have never known anyone I hated more than this Albert Calavicci. The man didn't have an honorable bone in his body. First he steals my thesis, then he steals my girl (well, YOU know . . .), then he ruins a fair boxing match with the most disgusting, filthy sex talk I've ever had the misfortune to hear (awww, Faith, what did you ever see in him?), and THEN he caps it off with the ultimate sucker punch.

But what bothered me most was the way he insinuated that I had sullied the memory of my brother, Tom, by staying in school and not fighting in that damn war. How could he know that the last thing my brother asked me to do before he left was to go to school and make the family proud? How could he know that time after time I WANTED to go – because my great grandfather had fought in the Civil War, my grandfather had fought in WWI, my dad in WWII, an uncle in Korea?

I so badly wanted to follow in my big brother's footsteps. Not just because he was my hero, but also because Becketts never ran from a good fight. They were farmers and lived off the land, and they knew how important defending that land was.

And how could he POSSIBLY know how hard Tom's death was on my mom, my dad, my little sister, Katie . . . on me? How my family wouldn't allow me to quit school, even though the farm was going under? How dad worked himself to death trying to save the farm from ruin? How even after all that, mom wouldn't let me quit and come home; that the last thing my dad told her was that I had too many gifts to waste them on a farm, milking cows for the rest of my life?

We lost the farm six months later, the farm that had been in our family for over 100 years.

I understand he couldn't know any of that about my life – but did he have to humiliate me the way he did? What the hell did I ever do to him? It's not my fault I'm smart like this. I certainly didn't ask for it. Can I help it if I was doing calculus in my head by the age of 5? Or reading Mark Twain at a time when other kids were trying to master Dick and Jane? What was I supposed to do when confronted with a Mozart piano sonata – pretend I couldn't play it? Did I cheat on the IQ exam when I scored 263? How could I turn down an offer to go to college when I was only 16, even with the war raging?

I wanted to be normal. That's all I ever wanted. Just once in my life. Just once, I wished the kids wouldn't pick on me because I was smarter than them (and their parents); that the teachers wouldn't treat me differently because I was so far ahead of the rest of the class; that the principals wouldn't parade me around like a circus act, showing me off, pretending that my advanced knowledge was all their doing.

I wanted to have friends, do silly things – get the girl. But that will never happen. The kids are afraid of me, or in awe of me . . . some still make fun of me. And the girls, well, I was always shy around them, and being a teenage prodigy on a college campus made me a freak. By the time I had caught up to them in age, I was so far behind them in social skills I was never going to get caught up.

Al may have been under the same mistaken impression of everyone else, that my life had been a dream, but he could never understand everything I had been through. Maybe I had never been imprisoned in a tiger cage in the jungles of 'Nam, but I had been a prisoner of my own mind for nearly 25 years.

This wasn't doing any good – all I was doing was making myself very depressed. I happened to look over at my desk and noticed my neglected thesis. There was only ONE way I was going to prove to Al who the best man was. If my brain could imprison me, it could also liberate me.

~~~~~

Over the next two weeks, I spent virtually every waking moment in the library. I finally managed to bribe Anabel into letting me take the Feynman book for a weekend, and I went to town with it. My presentation was shaping up nicely, and it was going to blow the review board completely out of the water!

The only times I wasn't working on my paper was when I went to the gym to relax. I gave myself an hour in the morning, which got me pumping for the day, and an hour at night, which helped me to sleep better. I worked at the heavy bag, got the hang of the speed bag, and even managed to work up the courage to talk a couple of the other guys into sparring with me in the ring. They were kinda friendly, and quite helpful, giving me tips and pointers about my footwork and hand positions; they almost became my unofficial trainers. The way I figured it, if I ever had another chance at Calavicci, I was going to be ready.

Vic and Louis, my sparring buddies, even invited me out for a beer a few times afterwards. They were nice guys, even if they did talk mostly about boxing and fitness. Still, it was good to get out of my room and away from my own thoughts for a little while. And it was fun to finally make a couple of friends.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... remember that episode where Sam leaped into the frat boy and Al suggests stuff regarding the water balloons?

**Wednesday, April 13, 1977**

**AL:**

"Ready . . . aim . . . fire!" I released the bicycle tire inner tube and watched the water balloon sail through the window and pop some poor student on the head.

"Good one, Al!" said the kid, Bobby, at the window. I gave him one of my best smiles, grabbed another water balloon from the wash basket next to me, put it in the crux of the tube, and waited for him to give me a heading. "Fifteen degrees left," said Bobby, and I adjusted my aim appropriately. "Ready . . . aim . . . fire!" and another balloon became a victim of the forces of gravity.

I took a gander at the quad, trying to decide my next target. Ah, there we go. That geek Beckett's been helping out. I loaded the makeshift slingshot and pulled back.

"Ready," I said.

"Aim," he added to the set up. Then, as if the thought just occurred to him, he smiled and said, "So, I heard your date with Michelle was a bust."

I released the balloon in my shock, but couldn't help a return smile as it promptly exploded on the upper portion of the window – splaying Bobby with water. How in the HELL did he hear about THAT? Shoulda known that rumors at a college campus flew faster than a jet plane.

"What do ya mean?" I asked, reloading my weapon with another balloon.

"Ah, c'mon, Calavicci," he said, giving me a knowing smile (after, that is, he wiped his face). "The greatest Casanova this campus has seen in a decade, and you wonder how one turndown gets around? She may be deaf, but she ain't dumb!"

"Yeah, tell me about it," I said, stretching back the inner tube. "Man, I went out with her, thinkin' I was gonna learn some lip readin', if you catch my drift, and instead she spent the night teachin' me sign language. Don't get me wrong, she's a great girl; but with a rack like that, who cared what she had to say?" I gauged my aim again.

"Don't I know it," Bobby said, motioning me to move my aim a little more to the left. "She's quite a dish. What happened with her, anyway? Was it Beckett?"

This time, it didn't hit the upper window, but sailed through with little aim – and I heard a familiar voice cry out as it encountered my projectile. Bobby looked out and said, "Oooh, ya got Dr. Anderson."

I popped my head out for confirmation, and the stuffy-assed gentleman I had the misfortune to have as my thesis advisor gave me a dirty look.

"Shit," I swore. This was not gonna help my thesis go over easily. I was plain lucky he let me get away with as much as I had. I turned back to Bobby and said casually, "What d'ya mean, was it Beckett?" He couldn't know. Even with the way rumors flew around this place, I couldn't think of how ANYONE would know my irritation with Beckett had turned into this erotic game play seemingly overnight, and the last two weeks had been spent with alternating thoughts of fighting him and 'making up'. God, I hated him. Hated what he was doin' to me, my concentration, my life. Beckett had gotten so far under my skin, I was beginin' to wonder who was really tormenting who.

"Oh, please!" he said, as if it was the most obvious thing on earth. "Everyone heard about your little 'fight' with the brainiac two weeks ago. And you'd have to be blind to not see how you two are constantly competing in class. Jeez – LoNigro's even stopped calling on either one of you, due to how the other would react because of it."

Oh. The competition. Good. I could handle that.

"God, I STILL remember that one class," he continued, "when the two of you kept interrupting Spence, answering questions before he asked 'em, shouting over each other. Man, you guys had the rest of us in stitches," he said with a laugh. "And then after class, when you both charged up to the podium? And Sam hip-checked you at the last second . . . ?"

I cringed at the memory. Fuck! Beckett really frosted my shorts! "And you think that snot-nosed kid somehow made Michelle . . . ."

"Turn you down faster than a speeding bullet?" Bobby said with a smirk. "Well, rumor has it he bedded that beauty last year – they were quite an item, after all. Guess things tapered off a bit over the summer, but they're still good friends. I hear he even tutors her from time to time in advanced calculus."

FUCK! God, I hated him! Bad enough he was hurtin' my 'performance' ANYWAY, but to have the only woman at MIT who turned me down do it because HE had gotten her already? "Her. That weird kid with the bad breath. What the fuck? He tutor the whole fuckin' school or somethin'?"

"Just about," Bobby said, and glanced back from the quad to give me a knowing smirk. "He's a putz, Al. I can't handle my own case load, and yet he flits about like he's God's gift to academics or something." He looked back out at the quad, and smiled. "Hey, look . . . speak of the pest . . ." and he pointed.

And, like it had been a sign, walking across the open area was HIM. Oh, I couldn't resist. This was just too, too tempting.

I quickly ran back to the inner tube, grabbed two balloons, asked, "So, it was Beckett that caused her to turn me down?" and took aim. "Let's just see how he likes this!" I finished, and I released.

I quickly ran to the window – I had to see this one. SMASH and SPLASH and I heard a, "HEY!" as one balloon landed on his head and the other landed square on the pile of books he had in his arms.

He looked around, quickly judged where the balloons came from, and his eyes slowly trailed up the building side. As our eyes met, I turned my anger into a feral smile and I gave my best friendly wave, saying, "Oh, was that YOU I just got?"

He glanced quickly down to his books, then raised his eyes to meet mine again. Oh, and I thought the look I got when I had offered to tutor him was deadly!

His lips drew a thin line of anger and his free hand started to go through his hair, wiping the water that dripped down out of his face. "Should've expected something this low from YOU!" he said, moving his hand to begin to go through the books in his hand. "Thankfully for YOU, that wasn't my only copy of MY thesis!"

Shit – that had been his THESIS? This was workin' out way too easily!

"Yeah?" I said, slipping back into the verbal warfare I had come to associate with moments with Beckett. "Too bad I didn't get anything IMPORTANT with that, then!"

"Important?" he yelled back to me. "That's funny, coming from someone who had to STEAL it in the first place!"

"What are you talkin' about? You stole it from ME, Beckett!"

"Like you know ANYTHING about computers!"

"Oh, if you weren't down there and I was up here . . ." I started.

"You'd what? Punch me in the package again?"

"If I thought it'd do any damage, yeah!"

"What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?"

"That I'd be more worried if I thought you even knew how to USE the damn thing!"

"Oh, don't worry!" Beckett said, his face growing red in his anger and indignation. "I've had plenty of experience."

"Coulda fooled us!" Bobby piped in. God bless him!

"Yeah, Beckett," I added. "Don't remember even seein' you with a girl for the last few months." He may have gotten Michelle, but it was apparent he hadn't gotten any since.

"Look, just because I don't have to sleep with every woman in a five mile radius like the rest of you sex maniacs doesn't make me any less of a man, Calavicci!"

"Oh, yeah, you're such a big man," I said, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "Was that what you told Brandi when she offered to sleep with ya?"

"Keep her out of this!" he yelled.

"Oh, I forgot – you're her knight in shining armor, aren't ya?" I yelled back down there. By now, the entire exchange had turned into 'the main event', as the quad began to fill with spectators. Bobby must've been right – our little 'competition' had turned into quite the campus show. "What do you do in your spare time? Rescue kittens out of trees?"

"That's far more noble than anything YOU'VE ever done, I'm sure!"

"Yeah, I guess orbitin' the moon ain't nowhere on the 'amazing things' list, huh?"

"I just wish you would've STAYED there!"

"But then you would've had to come up with your OWN thesis, Beckett!"

"I didn't steal your thesis. YOU stole MINE!"

"Bullshit!" I yelled back. "You think you're so big! Thought I showed you once already that you have nothin' on me!"

"Yeah? Well, I've been practicing since then. If you think the only way to solve this is through violence, I'd be more than happy to show you the error of your ways!"

"Fine, Beckett!" I yelled, not believing his newfound 'ability' for a second. Hell, even if he HAD been practicin', I'd still be able to wipe the floor with him. "Just name the time and place, and I'll be there with bells on!"

"Tomorrow, noon, Johnson's! And be sure to be wearin' gloves, too!" And he stormed off. By the excited murmurs going across the quad, I had a feelin' we wouldn't be the only ones at Johnson's tomorrow at noon. I turned away, and caught the glimmer of a smile from Bobby.

"What?" I snapped, still in verbal attack mode.

"Hit him once for me, Al. Spoiled brat deserves everything he gets."

God, I hated him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And add in the deaf episode as well as the beginning leap out of Sam up a tree rescuing kittens into the canon in jokes. ;-)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sam's string theory.

**SAM:**

Can you believe the uncouthness of that over-aged juvenile delinquent? I'm minding my own business, rushing to get to Spence's place for a meeting, and out of nowhere, BAM! I get smacked with not one, but TWO water balloons, all because Mr. Calavicci and friends couldn't find anything more constructive to do on a Wednesday afternoon. Whatta jerk!

I got to Professor LoNigro's house and took a moment to collect myself. I was still pretty steamed with Al's childish behavior and his uncalled for insults, and I didn't want to burden my friend with a bad attitude. After all, he was taking time out of his busy schedule to go over my presentation. I took a couple of deep breaths to calm my anger, knocked, and entered when beckoned.

I stood in the middle of his living room, dripping water onto his rug. He gave me a puzzled look. "Is it raining out?"

"No," I snapped, and wiped at some water that was trickling down the back of my neck. "And I don't want to talk about it." Guess my attitude still needed some adjusting.

"Well, Sam, I know you've been kinda paranoid since the streaking incident, but I think you're supposed to put your clothes on AFTER you shower." I just scowled at him and threw my soaking wet thesis on his coffee table. He picked at the first couple of pages and tried to peel them apart, ripping both my cover page and contents page in the process. "What's this?"

"What's left of my doctoral thesis."

"You took your thesis into the shower with you?"

I rolled my eyes back. Great. He wanted to joke around and I wasn't in the mood. "No – Calavicci and his cronies are shooting water balloons out of the sixth floor window of Baker House." I noted his smirk with great irritation. "Glad you find that so funny."

He laughed, "Sorry, Sam, but it IS kinda funny."

"He ruined my thesis!" I huffed.

"But you have another copy, right?"

"Of course, but that's not the point . . . ."

"Sam . . . you've got to learn to lighten up. Relax. Have some fun. You're too young to be wound as tightly as you are."

I put my hands on my hips. "Just because I'm too mature to be firing water bombs at unsuspecting victims?"

"You make it sound like a crime."

"Well, it should be. Someone could slip and fall and . . . ."

"Sam . . . what's troubling you?" He patted the cushion next to him; I took the invitation and had a seat on the couch. "It can't be just the balloons."

"No, it's everything!" I confessed. "I can't wait for this semester to be over with."

"This campus just isn't big enough for the two of you, huh?" he teased, as he chucked me in the shoulder.

"He's driving me crazy, Spence. I just want him to go away and have my life go back to the way it was."

He slung his arm around my shoulders. "You know, you and Al are two of the most brilliant minds to ever step through MIT's doors, certainly the most intelligent and interesting students I've ever had the pleasure of teaching. I'm also pleased to be able to call you both good pals of mine. I wish you could learn to get along, be friends. There's no way of knowing how far the two of you could go together."

"FRIENDS?" I yelped. "I can't even look at him without wanting to punch him in the face! He gets on my nerves!"

"And you get under his skin."

"What makes you say that?"

"Bingo's told me."

"BINGO!?! Now you've given him a nickname, too!?!" I've known Spence for nearly two years and he never gave ME a nickname!

"It's left over from his Navy days." He gave my shoulder a squeeze, saying, "Listen, Sam – has it ever occurred to you that the reason you two can't stand each other is because you're so much alike?"

"Spence, what have you been smoking? Me and Al? Alike? We're NOTHING alike!"

"C'mon, Sam. You're both intelligent, inquisitive, driven, ambitious, curious, determined over-achievers. You're more alike than either of you will ever admit."

"Spence, can we please stop talking about Al? He bores me."

He smiled, indulging me. "Fine, Sam. What DO you want to talk about?"

I motioned to the wet report on the table. "I've done a lot of work on it. I think you'll be surprised. I'm dying to hear what you think of it." I got up from the sofa and asked, "You hungry?"

He peeled off the ripped pages and threw them away before he started reading. "Yeah, sure – you know where the stuff is. And extra mustard on mine, okay?" I left him sitting on the couch, already engrossed in my proposal.

I went to the fridge and got all the sandwich supplies, then headed into the kitchen to make us some mid-day snacks. After fixing a couple of sandwiches that would make Dagwood jealous, I put everything away, grabbed a couple of cold Cokes from the fridge and the bag of Funyuns from the kitchen counter, and headed back to the living room. Spence was right where I found him, even more riveted than he was before. I placed the sandwich and one of the sodas within hand's reach of him, and took a seat in a recliner across from him. I hadn't eaten lunch, so I eagerly dug into the munchies.

After fifteen minutes or so, he looked up at me, a stunned expression on his face. I knew immediately what section he had gotten to. Ahh, he had found my surprise. "What do you think?" I asked, with a satisfied smile on my face.

But the response was not what I expected. "What the hell IS this?"

"It's our string theory," I answered him, proudly.

"Sam, this is not OUR string theory. Ours deals with the space/time continuum. This . . ." and he shook the papers in his hand, "this is about traveling back and forth in time. I've never even SEEN this before!"

"I know." I couldn't help the pride that laced my words. "I've been working on it in my spare time. Pretty wild, huh?"

"What the hell is it doing in the middle of your proposal?" he asked, exasperated. "I thought your paper was about designing and programming a parallel hybrid computer?"

"It still is, but I've been rethinking our string theory, and I realized the modified version would be a perfect fit with my proposal. So I made it part of my thesis, to show how the hybrid computer will influence and achieve my objectives of time travel."

He started getting more flustered. "Kid, this is – I don't even KNOW what this is! And if I can't understand it, how do you expect the review board to respond?"

I was confused. "But Spence, you told me to knock them on their ears."

"Their ears, not their asses. Sam, this – this is incomprehensible! It's just gibberish!" He took a deep breath and delivered the deathblow, "Time travel is just a pipe dream, Sam."

"No, it's not," I said, my anger at his skepticism bubbling up. "All the points are valid and diagramed. Everything is notated, down to the last detail. The math equations are solved to the last decimal point. It'll work, Spence, I KNOW it will."

"Sam, that's not the point. I can't let you submit this paper. I won't have you made the laughing stock of this school."

"But Spence, you can see the work. I've slaved over this . . . . That string theory is over half my paper."

"You should have run it by me first." He came over to my chair and put a hand on my shoulder. "Look, Sam, I know you've got a lot of dreams in that mind of yours, and you're anxious to leave your mark on the world, but as your advisor, and your friend, I'm asking you, BEGGING you, to reconsider this presentation."

I couldn't believe it. The one friend I had, the one person who I believed would understand and be happy for me, was basically telling me I was a crazy dreamer . . . just like all the others. I thanked him for his opinion, not meaning a word of it, as I got up and started bundling up my books and papers, preparing to get out of there in a hurry before I broke down.

He came over and gave me a friendly hug, which I reluctantly accepted. I just wanted to leave, to get as far away as I could. He was muttering what he thought were comforting words – about legacies, and going down in MIT history, and how the world needed more dreamers like me, and how someday my time would come, and how one day my name would be mentioned in the same breath as Einstein – but I just shut him out. The pain inside grew and burned until I had to break away, and I dashed out the door.

As I hurried across the campus, my mind raced. All that work – nearly three months of hard mental toiling (not to mention a lifetime's aspirations), shot to hell. Who was I kidding? Spence was right. They were all right. My brother always joked with me to be careful, that there was a fine line between genius and madness. And maybe I had finally crossed it.

Traveling in time! What a joke! That was the stuff of bad sci-fi movies and books and cheaply produced TV shows, not legitimate science. I figured it out – I still had three weeks before I had to face the review board. There was still time to prove myself to them, and to Spence. It would mean starting from scratch, and working day and night, but I could do it. Just concentrate on the computer and lose all the time-travel nonsense. But that would all have to wait . . . right now, I had a fight to prepare for.

I threw my useless project into a nearby trashcan and headed off to the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And "Traveling in time! What a joke! That was the stuff of bad sci-fi movies and books and cheaply produced TV shows, not legitimate science." has to be one of my favorite lines that JD wrote for this. Perfect dig at Bellisario. ;-)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Round 2: Fight! Again, boxing-related violence in this, but nothing worse than you'd see on a regular TV show. Also, there's some Italian curse words - translation follows immediately in {}.

**Thursday, April 14, 1977**

**AL:**

I showed up at Johnson's at 11, wantin' to work out and stretch before goin' to town on Beckett. A small group had already arrived, waitin' for the fight, and had the audacity to ask me about my 'status' like I was a racehorse or somethin'. Bobby was there and already set up a general betting pool. My ego soared as I looked at the odds: 3-1 on me as the winner (Sam was a long shot at 15-1. HA! Take THAT, Beckett!). Louis walked up to me and looked me over as if gauging my abilities.

"We gonna have a good, clean fight, Calavicci?"

"As clean as a fight like this deserves," I answered with a conspiratorial wink. "You gonna referee?"

"Of course. You think I want someone to die on my shift? Just watch yourself, Al. Don't think I don't know what you did the last time."

I gave him a self-satisfied smile and went into the locker room to quickly change into the outfit I specifically chose to use today: my tight-fitting dark green Navy SEALs T-shirt a friend had given me when I got back from 'Nam and a pair of camouflaged shorts. Not my most stylish clothes, but it presented the image I wished to get across – that I was not to be messed with.

After stashin' my stuff, I proceeded to the punchin' bag area.

Before I got too involved, I first started with a few warm-up stretches. The type I did to increase my endurance and flexibility. Before long, I was lost in the feel of the straining muscles and perspiration.

"I . . . I didn't know you knew Tai Chi," I heard a familiar voice filter through my exercise fog. I glanced up and stifled a laugh as I saw Beckett, looking at me with a combination of respect and hatred. Gotta ask him sometime how he does that.

"Is that what it's called?" I asked, wondering where THIS conversation was going. Hadn't had one face-to-face confrontation with the boy wonder yet that didn't end in a verbal exchange that made the McCarthy hearings seem civil. "Just knew it increased staying power," I leered at him and slowly stood.

His face paled as he noticed my T-shirt, and he stammered, "You . . . you were a SEAL?"

"No," I said, giving an inner smile as he fell into my trap. What can I say? I loved playing head games with this guy. And when I saw Tom's dog tags, well, my imagination went into overdrive. "But a friend of mine was. You gotta problem with it, kid?"

"Tom . . ." he started, then scrunched up his face in a way that made me know the memories were painful. "You knew he was a SEAL, didn't you?" he asked, his face crunching even more as he realized what I was capable of.

I just smiled and said, "Don't know what you're talkin' about, kid. Just wanted to wear one of my favorite shirts. If it bothers you . . . ."

"Oh, no," he said, attempting to change the look on his face – very unsuccessfully. "After all, I half-expected you to resort to dirty tricks – again. Should've known you couldn't fight fairly, even once," and he brushed past me, deliberately hitting me with his shoulder.

I grabbed onto him, noting the surprised look I received as he gazed into my face. "Listen, punk," I started, "I told you once that fightin' fair never got me anywhere. If I tried to live life the way you talk about, I wouldn't have survived this long. Like I always say, it's smarter to be lucky than it's lucky to be smart. I just play by the rules that were taught to me by society."

"Isn't that just like you?" he sneered.

"Isn't WHAT just like me?"

"Passin' the buck – like you are with my thesis."

"I told ya yesterday, Beckett, you stole my thesis."

He gave me a push, as if to get past me, and said, "Look, it's obvious we won't solve THAT argument today, so let me get changed and we can start finding out who the 'bigger' man is." And he wrenched himself out of my grasp and stormed into the locker room.

I watched him walk away, tryin' not to ogle that fine ass as it wiggled out of my line of sight.

"Thought you two weren't fighting until noon," I heard from beside me. I turned and noticed this guy I had seen around the gym – Vic, I think.

"What's it matter to you?" I asked, giving my best dead-on stare. "Not like we're doin' this for anybody but ourselves."

"You don't know what you're up against, Calavicci," he said with a smirk. "Me and Louis have been helpin' him – he's not too bad."

"Yeah, well, I've been known to win a few fights myself," I responded, letting my ire with Beckett coat even THIS conversation. "Look, are you buggin' me for a reason, or can I start workin' out so my body will be ready for this fight?"

"Calavicci," he started, then glanced at my eyes. Must've seen something there that told him his company was not wanted. "Fine – go ahead. Do whatever you want to. Just thought I'd warn you not to underestimate Beckett. The kid's been learning a few things about boxing these past couple of weeks, that's all."

"And I've been doin' it since I was old enough to strap on a jock, so I doubt I have anything to worry about." And with that, I walked over to the boxing gloves and laced up a pair.

The next few minutes were spent takin' out my irritation on the punchin' bag, but I was distracted. Part my mind was waitin' for Beckett to come back out of the locker room, waitin' to get this over with, and another part of my mind was replayin' the last fight (and what happened after). No. I couldn't start thinkin' about THAT now.

I stepped back after a few minutes of working on the bag and crashed into a form behind me. I turned, my hands at the ready, and gave an ironic laugh as I saw it was Beckett I had run into. And held back a gasp as I focused on his form.

Jesus Christ! He had pulled out all the stops. The bastard was shirtless, wearing just a pair of red satin boxing short shorts. I noted the fine definition of his chest and abs – not too muscle-bound, but nice. Very nice. His torso was covered with soft, downy hair, a shade darker than the chestnut strands that crowned his head. His legs were shapely, with just the right amount of muscles and hair. I bit my tongue to stifle a moan of desire.

Fuck, did he even have a clue how good he looked? Yeah, with his ego, he probably did. It was almost as if he picked the outfit to drive me to distraction, and Goddamn, it was working! I could feel myself getting hard and cursed my latest 'dry spell'. Had to get past it. Had to beat the S.O.B. into submission. I gave him a slight push, making him back up instead of me. "You're in my way, punk!"

"Listen, Al," he started, his hands up in a 'stop' motion, "I've been thinking . . . ."

Oh, too late to back down NOW, Beckett. "Probably the only thing you're good at, you figlio di puttana {Son of a bitch/whore}," I said, slipping into Italian in my irritation. "You gonna chicken out, like your brother?"

"Fine!" he yelled, and this time, he was the one that went over and got the helmets – tossing one to me. I could tell by his body language that despite the attitude, he was still a little nervous about the violence that was about to commence, which made his determination to fight me all the more interesting. He strapped his helmet on, climbed into the ring, and finished putting on his punching gloves. "Are you joining me?" he asked, like he was asking me to dinner.

I fitted the helmet over my head as I made my way to the ring. "You're makin' a mistake, kid," I said, trying to make him realize what he was in for.

"Oh, I doubt that, pops," he said, still trying to sound dangerous, and I had to give another chuckle at that sweet-lookin' face tryin' to talk mean. Hell, I'd've been more scared of the Flyin' Nun. Guess I'd have to teach him another lesson in order to show him life was not all fairy tales and princesses. "You see," he continued, "I've been getting help."

Oh – I had to deflate that ego, and fast. "Yeah, I've heard," I said, and climbed into the ring. "Two week's worth of work a champion does not make."

"Hey," I heard Louis yell from the sidelines, "I thought you guys weren't starting 'till noon!"

"We're both here and wanting to get started," I said, and turned to him – giving my calm smile. "Unless you have a problem with that?"

"Hey, Vic!" he yelled to the one guy – guess I was right – who was now working out on the weightlifting equipment. "They're startin' already!"

"Oh, shit!" Vic yelled back, and I heard the clank of weights as he dropped whatever he had been working with. "Thanks – wouldn't miss this for the WORLD!"

"Are you ready, BINGO?" Beckett asked, giving me a piercing stare with those deep hazel eyes of his.

SHIT! How the hell did he learn my Naval nickname? I punched my hands together, saying, "I was born ready, testa di cazzo {Cockhead}." And the fight began.

Like with our first fight, the first few seconds were spent with us dancing around each other, evaluating, looking for weaknesses in each other's form. I couldn't help but notice that Beckett definitely seemed more confident in his abilities.

"What's goin' on?" I heard Bobby say from the sidelines.

"They're already at it!" Louis said.

"There goes my betting pool," he bemoaned.

Beckett took a hesitant swing, one I could tell was not meant to hit me per se but to see my reaction, and I ducked out of the way.

"So, Beckett," I said, "how does it feel to have this much hatred for someone?"

"Hate?" He seemed taken aback at the word. "I try not to hate anyone, even someone who steals my thesis." He reacted to my movements, punching his gloves. "But in your case, I can make an exception."

"Give it up, kid!" I said, giving a slight laugh. "You stole MY thesis, Beckett. I've been working on that computer all freakin' semester. Doin' it right, too, I might add."

"Ha – I've been working on mine the whole semester, too, you know," he said, as if that proved his point. He took a slight swing that I easily dodged. "And what do you mean, you've been doing it right?"

"C'mon, Beckett," I heard Vic from the sidelines. "Remember what we went over the other day."

"If you ever get that attitude of yours adjusted to where you'd be willing to listen to someone who CAN'T do five million things in his head at once, I may just show you," I said, starting to get irritated. Man, every time I'm about to cut the kid some slack, he comes back with the attitude. Jerk. "As it is, leccaculo {ass-kisser}, I'll just have to show you in my thesis – the one that was ORIGINALLY mine."

"Hey, Vic, what's goin' on?" I heard someone ask.

"Beckett and Calavicci are trying to kill each other." I couldn't help but notice how calm it was said, like they were discussing the weather.

"I thought that wasn't until noon," a different voice piped in.

"Seems the two of 'em couldn't wait."

A third new voice shouted, "Five bucks says Calavicci pummels that bratty brain into next week!"

"I'll take that bet, Joe," yet another new voice entered the fray. "Beckett has a good uppercut." As if to prove the point, Beckett landed a good one to my face, and I felt my head snap back in reaction. The first hit went to him, and the competition was finally underway.

"C'mon, Al – hit him once for me!" said a familiar voice from the sidelines that I couldn't identify. "Beckett ruined my chance at straight A's last semester!" Hell, that coulda been almost anyone on campus!

"So, Al," Beckett said as he danced around me, making half jabs that were more for finding out my weaknesses than for actual hitting, "what kind of sick, pornographic stories are you gonna tell me this time?"

"You sound like you're eager to hear some more about my love life."

"No, I just figured you'd try something underhanded like that again, that's all."

Well, it wasn't planned, but if that's the way he wanted it, I could always oblige. I had no problem showing him who was the better man. "Na," I said, giving my own half jabs to test his defenses, "not with an audience." I gave a quick thrust to his jaw, which he blocked. "Much more fun to actually do it when there's people around. You ever do that, kid? Fuck in a public place?" His shock at my suggestion let me get past one small hit on his chin.

"Great hit, Bingo!" I heard Bobby yell out.

"C'mon, Sam, you can do better than that! Don't let what he's sayin' get to ya!"

"Unlike you, Al, I have humility," he said, giving a couple of hits that I easily deflected. "And a sense of modesty."

"Oh yeah, like running around the campus butt naked, huh? REAL modest, Sam."

"That wasn't my fault!" he snarled angrily between clenched teeth, throwing a right jab that hit me square in the ribs.

I grunted at the sharp pain, but wouldn't give in. "You know, kid, it's just a small leap from streaking to public fornication. Wanna hear 'bout the most public place I've ever screwed?"

"Does every word that comes out of your mouth have to be about sex?" he inquired, disgustedly.

I never got to answer him as someone yelled from ring-side, "Not the church story again, Al!"

It was almost as good as if I had said it myself. Beckett's face showed his shock as he realized what I was about to tell him, and I got in a good couple of blows to his sides.

"Keep your hands up, Sam!" I heard Vic yell.

"A church?" he screeched after I got done with my one-two.

"Yeah," I said, getting into my dirty talk once again. Hey, it worked once before, right? If it ain't broke . . . . "She was this sweet little piece of tail named Danessa," I said, reveling in the way he was battling against his shock at my words. "Sweet little Lithuanian girl, who LOVED 'Be Bop a Lula' – and she liked the song, too. You should see her dance to that one, Beckett. Most erotic show I've ever been to. She was always askin' me to show her American customs, and to her America was the 60s – sexual freedom. Got turned on by ANYTHING she considered American. She asked me once about religion and I took her to a local Catholic church."

You could see the dismay and disbelief in his face. "You didn't."

I leered at him, giving the 'punch line' to my little erotic tale. "Yup. We did it right there in the confessional, the priest sittin' just five feet away. Never knew what was goin' on."

"Bullshit!" he exclaimed, the outrage and disbelief apparent.

I gave a smile and another punch that got through his defense. "Yeah, I fucked her until the cows came home." Then I remembered our little prodigy had grown up on a farm somewhere, and couldn't help but add, "Oh, that's right – you farm boys fuck the cows until the girls come home, doncha? Ah, the Midwest," I sighed, watching him begin to seethe, "where the men are men, the women are few, and the livestock are scared."

"That's it!" he shouted, and threw all his anger into one punch. A punch I failed to block. I don't know if it was because I was . . . uh . . . distracted by Beckett (damn if those satin shorts, now saturated with sweat, weren't clinging to every nook and cranny the kid had) or if the audience was gettin' to me or if maybe (gasp) he was actually getting good as a fighter, but I found myself on the ground reacting to the hit he just scored.

"Oh, good one, Beckett!" I heard Vic say.

"What's going on?" I heard as yet another voice came into the room.

"It's Beckett and Calavicci," half the voices said as one.

"Damn it! It's not noon yet!" someone else added.

"I know," said Bobby. "They couldn't wait, I guess."

Now the voices were changing so much I couldn't keep track anymore. "Who's taking bets?"

"Bobby's holding."

"Who's winning?"

"Well, Calavicci was for a while, but Beckett's been getting in some good shots."

"Put me down for $20 on the brainiac."

"Never. A ten-spot on Al."

"I've GOT to get Dr. LoNigro – he would LOVE to see this fight!"

Great. Yet another thing for Spence to get pissed at me for. I stood up, and sneered at the kid. "That the best you can do, Beckett?"

"No," he said, looking at me. "I can do this," he said, and tried another punch. But this one I blocked. We grappled for a bit, and I finally shoved him off.

"Oh, foul, foul!" screamed one of our audience.

"You know something, Beckett? You fight like you probably fuck – slow and sloppy!"

"How in the hell would YOU know?" he said, his anger becoming visible on his face. "Just because I don't screw everything in a skirt doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing."

I retorted, "Well, I think your constant lack of female companionship says it all." And a loud "Ooooohhhh," filled the room.

"Oh yeah? Well from what I've heard, Calavicci, you're not quite the stud you think you are. Maybe if you took the time to care about the women you were with, you wouldn't have had that problem with Lorelei." And an even louder "Ooooohhhh!" rippled through the crowd.

"Good going, Sam," Vic yelled from the sidelines. "Work with him on his own turf!"

Good Lord – how in the hell did he hear about THAT? Lorelei had promised that little 'incident' would be kept quiet. "Problem?" And I gave a small shudder at the squeak in my voice.

"Well, I was helping her with her math the other day and she told me that you, how shall I say it, 'couldn't get the general to salute' on your date with her last weekend. And if you couldn't raise the flag for someone as hot as Lorelei, then maybe time really IS catching up to ya, Al." And he promptly got in a couple of blows to my side.

Shit – who does he NOT tutor? Besides, I had a good reason that night. It had been thoughts of whose name I may accidentally scream out in the moment of passion that had kept my body from responding the way I wanted to. Just one more reason to hate him – now my 'reputation' was being tarnished! My breath was starting to rattle in my lungs as the fight hit its stride.

"Oh, one time, Beckett!" I finally threw back at him as I attempted a couple more punches. "One – out of the thousands of satisfied customers out there, Beckett. Like Faith. Remember that."

"You know, anyone who has to brag about it as much as you do is obviously very insecure about his masculinity."

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" I demanded, failing to block the right uppercut that smashed into my ribs.

"I'm just saying that if you were more confident about your sexuality, you wouldn't have to keep proving it over and over, then telling everyone you encounter about it," he answered smugly.

How DARE he hit the nail on the head like that! "That's it, you stronzo di merda {fuckin' bastard}! You're goin' down, Beckett!"

He came in close and threw a punch that I dodged, having us grapple a bit more. His body engulfed mine in a perverse parody of a hug. I felt the turret pressing into my back and some left jabs in my ribs. In a professional match, a ref would've separated us, but not here. Louis, despite his sayin' he'd referee, was obviously letting the two of us handle it on our own. Or maybe he had a conflict of interest, being Sam's coach and all.

We continued to embrace, locked together. I tried to push him away to get in some clean punches, but he was too big and wouldn't budge. I felt a few more pokes hit their mark. Damn, the kid HAD learned some tricks.

It didn't help matters that my body had decided to take that moment to betray me. I felt his delicious, forbidden body crushed to mine; his masculine scent invading my senses, sending the blood rushing to my little pal. Maybe it was because I was excessively horny, but this boy was turnin' me on big time. I tried to turn my attention back to the match, but he was makin' it quite difficult as I watched through heavy lidded eyes the sweat trickle down that well-sculptured, furry chest. I felt my mouth begin to water and had to restrain myself from leaning forward and licking the drops that clung to his hardened nipples.

If Sam was getting any sexual thrills from our battle, he hid them well – he just seemed to be in his own little world, not even conscious of the crowd that was now out of sight. By now the gym was filled with students, all rooting one of us on. You'd think it was Ali and Frazier, instead of me and Sam.

Another hard punch landed on target and I grimaced. He moved his head up and looked at me in the eye. We stared at each other, a stare reminiscent of the one we had shared that night at the library. I noticed a sly twinkle in his eye, and then his eyebrows quirked as he suddenly thought of something. Next thing I knew, he had moved in and started kissing me. A brief brush; promising, wanting, needing. Oh God, he wanted me as much as I wanted him! My mouth was open asking for more even before the rest of my mind caught up to what he was doing. I reeled back, shocked at the power of that kiss. Man, was I wrong! What that man could do with just his lips was scary. My body was on fire, looking for more.

Guess that's why I never even saw the fist coming, but I sure as hell felt the punch that landed right in my face. I fell to the floor, barely holding on, my last conscious thought being, 'Talk about gettin' it in the kisser!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ah, the Midwest," I sighed, watching him begin to seethe, "where the men are men, the women are few, and the livestock are scared." - My favorite insult, as someone from the Midwest. ;-)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about missing last week - the holidays have been crazy. I'm uploading two chapters today to make up for it. We're almost to the hotness.

**SAM:**

"Oh God, what have I done?"

"I think you've done enough, Sam," Spence said tersely from behind me, and rushed past me, trying to get to Al. I didn't even know he was there! How long had he been watching us?

Actually, now that the match was over, EVERYONE was trying to get to Al. I stood there numbly, watching as Louis shoved through the crowd, carrying a small black bag. One person was checking his pulse; another was checking his pupils. Spence knelt down beside my opponent and was cradling his head in his lap as Lou pulled out a small bottle of smelling salts, trying to revive him.

I should have helped them. I was a doctor. Had spent last summer doing my residency at MASS General. But when I approached, Spence gave me a withering look and I quickly stepped back, thoroughly chastised.

I looked around the rest of the gym in a daze. Where did all these people come from? Those who weren't standing around Al were standing around the ring, passing money back and forth. Some were grumbling, some were ecstatic; a couple reached over and slapped me on the back while I watched, waiting for Al to show some signs of life. I even said a prayer, begging that he would be okay.

I barely noticed the friendly arm that Vic slung over my shoulder. "C'mon, Slugger, you shouldn't be here for this." He turned me around, and started to lead me out of the ring. But I kept looking back in shock at what I had done to Al.

++++++++

The rest of the day was like a dream. I came to standing in my shower, but I had no idea how I got there, or even how long I had been in there. In fact, I couldn't even remember getting back to my place. I figured Vic must've had something to do with it and sent out a silent 'thank you' for his help.

How had I gotten so out of control? Me? Heck, this whole situation! What started as friendly rivalry last semester had quickly turned bitter with the knowledge he had stolen my thesis. Then everything snowballed into an intolerable state of affairs, until he had almost ended my chances of fathering children . . . .

And I had almost ended his life.

What was going on with me? What was I turning into? I'm not a violent man. My parents had taught me violence never solved anything – my brother's death seemed to verify that. His death didn't stop the war and neither did any of the other 55,000 'Toms' out there.

And I don't cheat. Never. Not in sports, not in scholastics. Winners never cheat, and cheaters never win. Another thing my parents taught me. I did everything fairly, honestly.

But Al brought out things in me I never knew existed – didn't WANT to know existed. The ability to fight, instead of negotiate. The ability to cheat, instead of playing by the rules. The ability to be truly angry for the first time in my life.

I didn't like these things. I didn't like Al showing me this side of myself. I didn't like the man Al was making me become.

I turned my thoughts back to the fight. It was stupid that I let Al coerce me into that ring again, pushing all the right buttons, forcing me to challenge him as to who was the BMOC. Isn't that ridiculous? Things like that never mattered to me before. Why should they now?

And all those guys hanging around, throwing bets on each of us as if they were at the racetrack and we were the prize greyhounds. I was pretty nervous, fighting in front of all those people, not knowing what kind of dirty laundry Al was going to throw at me, but I had something I didn't have the last time – Vic in my corner. I found as things progressed that I did okay, what with him yelling encouragements and tips. A good friend, and his comments were helpful.

Al was so wrapped up in his cheating techniques he forgot his fighting techniques. (A CHURCH?!?! The man was sick, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!) He was still a tough competitor, but I could see the cracks in his form and took full advantage of his weaknesses, just as Louis taught me. As the match went on, he seemed more and more distracted – probably concerned about looking good in front of his buddies – and I used that to my advantage, too. Once I got him trapped against the turret, I knew I had him. His arms were wrapped around me, just trying to hold onto his balance, leaving me free to hit at will. I could feel my punches score point after point, smashing into his totally defenseless body.

Then why did I do it? If I was winning the match, why did I cheat like that? Was it because just beating him held no interest to me? Was it because I wanted a knock out? Was it because I wanted to humiliate him as he had done me? It wasn't even something I did consciously – "Oh, if I get Calavicci that close, I'll kiss him and throw his game off." It wasn't planned, but when the opportunity presented itself, I couldn't help but go with the impulse. We were hidden; no one could see me. So I socked it to him. He was so stunned, almost as if he was waiting for more, I had just the opening I needed and . . . POW!

I could still hear the horrible sound as my fist hit his face, like the thud of punching a ripe melon. The helmet did nothing to cushion the blow – in fact, it seemed to echo throughout the gymnasium. Then he just crumpled like a house of cards. I didn't even have time to check on him before Spence was leaping into the ring, then Lou came charging, and all hell broke loose.

I wondered what time it was, how long I had been standing in my shower. The hot water had run out and was now just lukewarm. Still, I stood there, playing back that fateful punch over and over. And, of course, the kiss.

While not realizing it at the time, my brain had cataloged and indexed the new experience, so now, in a calmer moment, I could relive it, analyze it, dissect it. I never knew a man's lips could be so soft, so warm, so strong. The slight stubble on the chin, the manly scent of his sweaty skin, the power and intensity of his jaw and his mouth. It was only a moment in time, a second or two in my life, but I had never felt anything like it, never dreamed kissing another man could be so – exciting.

Or . . . was it just Al? I mean, up close like that, I finally noticed how handsome he was; well, for an older guy. Sexy, in a kind of feral, primitive way. There was something mysterious and dangerous about him, his virility almost palpable. And his eyes. Deeper and darker than the midnight sky. Had never really taken the time to look before, but now I saw why the girls all went gaga over him.

But what did any of that have to do with the kiss? There were much better looking men on campus, but I never got the impulse to kiss THEM. Well, why would I? I just planted one on Al so I could distract him long enough to get a good hit in, didn't I? I couldn't have done it for any other reason . . . could I?

No. I didn't go that way. But then, why did I enjoy it so much? Was it my passionate dislike for him that made it so wildly erotic? Could Spence have been right when he said we were so much alike? Or was it maybe the situation? Or just, as much as I hated to admit it, that the man was a damn good kisser?

Because make no mistake about it . . . he kissed me back.

Whatever it was, I soon realized my body was agreeing with my brain – I was getting hard. From thoughts of the fight? From thoughts of the kiss? From thoughts of Calavicci? My cock didn't know and, quite frankly, didn't care. I reached down to touch myself – and discovered my pal had achieved maximum capacity and was reaching up towards my abdomen.

I lathered up my hands with some soapsuds, and grasped a hold of myself. Jeez, I was horny! When was the last time I did this? Guess I've been rather busy if I couldn't remember. Maybe THAT was it. The kiss and Al had nothing to do with it . . . just my neglected body responding to outside stimuli. I mean, I haven't been with anyone since Michelle last summer. Come to think of it, she was the last girl I had kissed, too. Well, unless you count Brandi.

Oh, yeah . . . Brandi. Mmmmm. My cock got harder just thinking of the lovely redhead, but when I tried to fantasize about the two of us, Al kept intruding. I couldn't seem to get all his dirty stories about her out of my mind. So there she was, on all fours, while Al took her from behind. God forgive me, but the visual was the hottest thing I had ever imagined. I let out a loud moan as my dick jumped in my hands.

But, wait. The picture was . . . changing. Suddenly, in my mind's eye, I was in Brandi's place, and Al was driving himself into me. Oh boy, this fantasy was even hotter than the one with Brandi. I didn't stop to figure it out, deciding to just enjoy the ride. It was only a fantasy, after all. One soapy hand with a mind of its own reached behind and began rubbing my puckered hole. Soon, a curious finger had breeched my virgin opening and was pushing deeper. My groaning only got louder as I slipped a second finger within.

I was really getting into it, pumping my hips and stroking myself both inside and out with both hands. I desperately tried to conjure up SOME kind of fantasy not involving Al in any way (and was finding that to be an impossible venture) when there was a knock at the front door.

DAMN!

For a moment, I thought about not answering it – I was SO close to cumming – but the knocking became more insistent. Thinking it may be Spence with some word on Al's condition, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist. Unfortunately it didn't really hide my aroused state, but I was too worried about my rival to care. I got to the door and flung it open, the words out of my mouth as I saw who was standing there, "Well, speak of the devil . . . ."

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the chapter that's got some dubious consent. But it's also where our boyz finally do the do. So ....

**AL:**

Any thoughts of a response were flushed out of my mind as my eyes raked over his dampened hair and flushed handsome face, down to his nipples starting to peak in the cooler air of the hallway, down to the towel loosely draped around his waist, right down to his . . . .

It took everything I had in me to not rip that towel off and take him then and there as I saw the more than obvious tent in front of me, and I barely controlled the urge to lick my lips. I felt his brother's dog tags, the ones I had brought along with me as a peace offering, slowly slip from my fingers and fall to the floor.

So, that's how he was going to play it. If he thought he could win THIS little battle, he didn't know Al Calavicci.

He did know what he did to me, though, and he was usin' it to his advantage. Little cock tease! God! How can he stand there, lookin' like that, and NOT expect me to . . . .

"Al?" he asked, hands on his hips, looking at me with a combination of disgust and concern, and I wondered again how the hell he pulled that off. "Are you . . . are you all right?"

"Am I all right?" I asked, as I slammed the door shut behind me. "That's a pretty stupid question from someone who's supposed to be so smart."

"Look, I was just asking. You don't have to be rude."

"I'm sorry," I snidely replied. "I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just fine, Beckett. In fact, I ENJOY having my clock cleaned by some wet-behind-the-ears snot-nosed brat. Thank you for asking."

"Well, I was just doing what you told me to do."

"ME? I don't recall telling you to floss my teeth with your tongue."

He ducked his head, his cheeks turning a bright red. "As I recall, you told me if I wasn't cheating then I wasn't trying . . . ."

"That's all it was? You were just cheating?" No way. I couldn't have mistaken that kiss. Just like I wasn't mistaking this image in front of me now. That hard-on of his hadn't gone down one iota since he opened the door.

He looked back at me, mumbling, "Of course. What else would it be?"

What else indeed? I could see the fear in his eyes. I knew the truth, even if he couldn't admit it. He wanted me, maybe as much as I wanted him. I took a few steps forward, backing him right into the wall behind him. I let my hungry gaze rape that fine, tight young body, feeling the excitement grow as I came in contact with that towel (and all the hidden wonders beneath it) before staring him in the eye, "I think you already know."

The fear was now a living entity in the room with us. "I . . . I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, DON'T you?" I moved my right hand up and cupped his jaw, holding his terrified eyes on mine. "It's simple, Beckett. Way I see it, we're tied: one fight to you, one fight to me. So we need a tiebreaker, and I've come up with one. It's time to find out who the BIGGER man really is."

His faced scrunched up in confusion, and he asked, "How . . . what do you suggest?"

My free hand trailed down his chest and found I couldn't help but smile as I felt him shiver in what could only be anticipation, pausing as I felt the terry cloth underneath my fingers. I gave him a look, trying to show him my lust and my determination to not cave in to his silly games. "The only way two guys can, Beckett," I retorted, and blithely ripped away the towel. I watched the shock on his face before dropping my eyes down to finally alight on my prize. The boy didn't disappoint. "My, my," I said, covering up my sense of wonder. "Guess what they say about a man and the size of his nose isn't wrong." The redness that touched his cheeks just made him that much more desirable.

"You might be close to me," I continued, moving my hand to my own pants. "Close," I said, working at my button and zipper, "but we'll have to see, won't we, whether you are close enough where it counts." And with that, I dropped my pants, releasing my own burgeoning erection, having become hard the moment I had seen him in that towel.

I saw his own eyes go wide with surprise as he took me in. His confusion was apparent, and I briefly wondered if I had maybe misinterpreted the kiss. Nah. I couldn't have. Not with how he had been dressed in the ring, not with how he had looked at me when he had opened up the door. I felt his eyes graze down my body, and I saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed and took a deep breath.

"Uh," he started, apparently lost for words, "I . . . oh, boy."

For some reason, that fueled my desire even more. But I couldn't let him win. I released his chin so I could reach down and grab his cock, using my left arm as a restraining bar across his throat. I gave a slight smile when I heard him gasp as my hand wrapped around his still-erect penis, pulling on it roughly as I laid it parallel to mine so we could accurately 'measure' them. I reveled in the feel of the silky-soft hardness of his flesh against mine, the head touching the base of my groin. I let out a disgusted sigh, "Damn it, another tie."

He looked at me contemptuously, the attitude back in full force. "Now what, genius?" he asked, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I couldn't have removed my hand from his cock if my life depended on it. And in that instant, I knew how this battle of wills should end. I stroked him a few times . . . I could feel the tension in his entire body as he tried to deny himself the pleasure. "Simple. First one to cum is the loser."

"WHAT?" he squeaked.

"Whazza matter, Beckett?" I asked, as I continued to manipulate him. "Afraid you don't have the control? Afraid you'll lose?"

"You're out of your mind!" he insisted.

I gave an evil chuckle. "Shoulda known you'd turn chicken on me."

"You're sick, you know that?"

The fact that I was still standing there petting his hard cock and he hadn't hauled off and punched my lights out told me I had his number, no matter what he was saying. "Fine. Then I win by default."

"Oh no, you don't!" he shot back, defiantly.

I pushed him up against the wall, brought my head in close, and whispered, dangerously, "Then what are ya gonna do about it? You think you can win this little sex game, Beckett? You think you can beat me? You may have started this with that little kiss of yours, but God damn it, I'm gonna finish it. You don't know NOTHIN' about kissing, boy," and I crushed my lips to his brutally. My one arm was still at his neck, holdin' him back against the wall, and my other hand began to caress his dick with tender roughness; I thrilled to his pleasured moan that vibrated against my lips. I was sick and tired of not being in control around him . . . now it was HIS turn to lose control.

His brain seemed to finally catch up to what was happening to him, for I suddenly felt his hands at my shoulders, caught between shoving me off and continuing the kiss.

I finally broke away and looked into those eyes – those eyes that had caught me from the first moment I looked into them that night at the library. Those self-same eyes that were now clouded in confusion and desire. Oh, yes. No mistake: there was definitely desire there.

"I . . ." he started. He gulped again in confusion, then continued, "But I don't even like you."

"That's okay," I said, giving his cock another tug, "I don't like you either."

Our lips met again, our verbal sparring match becoming a silent alpha male duel in our kiss, neither one of us wanting to give ground. And I felt the first round go to me as his hands started to move towards my shirt, tugging it up and moving his hands to feel my chest. My hands were content with alternately feeling his chest and his cock, and I broke away in order to fully remove my shirt.

Unfortunately, in order to do that I had to remove my hands, and he took that moment to gain the upper . . . uh . . . hand, so to speak. The shirt had barely hit the floor when I found myself smashed up against the wall, his lips just inches away from mine. His breath was ragged, his eyes were glinted with raw need, and I could tell he was using everything he had to hold himself back.

"I won't let you do this," he panted.

"Do what?" I asked, my own breath showing my excitement. "You want it as bad as I do, Beckett. Admit it."

"Admit I want you?" he said, clearly aghast.

"Well, it IS pretty apparent," I said, and casually dropped my hand back down to his abandoned cock. I got my answer well enough as I heard a groan escape his clenched mouth at my touch.

"Just because my body is responding doesn't mean anything," he said, turning his face away in embarrassment.

But that was all I needed. I pushed him off, shoving him away. He barely took a step back before I landed a tackle on him, rolling us both back onto his couch. On top again, I lent my head down and started another kiss – this one harsh and urgent, reminiscent of the one he had given me in the ring. My hands were working with me; one staying on his shoulder, keeping him down, the other moving up and down his side, toying. I gave a slight chuckle as my hand filtered through his chest hair, tweaking his nipples.

"C'mon, Beckett," I said, moving his hand to my own cock, both reveling in his touch and hating the fact that he could do this to me. "Show me who's REALLY the better man."

"Never," he panted, clearly getting into this latest competition with me as his hand started to play with various parts of my anatomy. "You'll never win against me, Calavicci."

And before I had a chance to respond, he was moving his lips to mine. DAMN, but he could kiss. I was lost totally in the feel of it, and the next thing I knew he had rolled us over to where he was on top, the cushions of the couch rubbing into my shoulders.

I broke away, vowing this would only be a pause, and looked into his eyes. "God, I hate you," I snarled, hating what he did to me, what he WAS doing to me.

We met in another harsh kiss, this time started by him, and after a few delicious moments of another tongue battle he broke away, grunting, "Hate you more," and proceeded to try and take the oxygen out of my mouth with his own.

I gained control once more, rolling us over yet again, right onto the floor. Didn't even break my momentum as I went in for the kill. Keeping one hand on his upper half, I started trailing kisses down his body, putting into action the fantasies I had been havin' about this man since the first time I saw him. The control on his body wasn't necessary as his entire torso went limp with my ministrations. And I curled my lips in a smile as his hips started to buck: my lips getting closer to the Promised Land. Oh, I would win this 'competition' with no problem. While I may have been dry for a coupla weeks, from all the rumors I'd heard, this boy had been dry for MONTHS!

I pulled myself up, giving him another mind-blowing lip lock, and made sure our hands were in the right spot.

"You ready, Beckett?" I asked, giving another chuckle as I gazed upon his face; his eyes closed tight, his mouth open, his breaths coming in short little bursts, his whole face tense in the moment.

And I started to pump. At first, I had to do us both, my hand over his, makin' him realize what the nature of this game was. He seemed so entrapped by what I had been doin', I wasn't sure if he had caught on. But if I knew anything about Sam Beckett, it was that he was a quick study. In no time at all, we were both rockin' and rollin', our hands on each other's cocks, our hips thrusting towards each other in that original dance of sex. His head lay back, a beautiful thing in its vision of ecstasy, and I couldn't resist landing another kiss on those glorious soft lips, letting my mouth suck at his lower lip in a long, luxurious suck.

Jesus Christ – I guess I was wrong. The kid may not scream his own name out during sex, but shit, the boy CAN scream! My eardrums nearly exploded as he released his cry and his cum at the same time, the kiss apparently the trigger behind it all. I sighed in relief as I felt his semen splatter my chest, and I pumped a few more times before succumbing to my own release. I rolled off the kid, panting out, "Game, set, and match . . . Calavicci," before collapsing beside him on the carpet, trying to catch my breath.

"Fuck," the man lying next to me whispered.

I had to laugh. "That WAS the point, Beckett." I looked over at him, checking to see what the consequences of my actions were. He lay there, panting in his exertions, his eyes still closed, his arms loose at his side, his whole body flushed and soaked with sweat. Shit, he was sexy! I rose up on my elbow and trailed my hand from his chin down his chest and raced it along his abdomen.

"Oh, fuck!" he said, as if accentuating his point.

"You gonna admit I'm the better man, Beckett?" I asked, knowing I had him totally at my mercy.

He finally opened his gorgeous eyes; eyes filled with fire and determination, and turned his head to look at me. He slowly sat up so as to be even with me, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "I only have one thing to say to you, Bingo," he said.

"What's that?" I asked, intrigued.

"Best two out of three." And with that, he rolled over on top of me, his mouth already claiming mine.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's definitely where we get that explicit tag. Oh, and the boys apparently have an extremely low refractory period. (Oh, and we do get some minor plot towards the end.) Once again, the Italian is translated with {} after.

**SAM:**

"Oh, God, baby . . . uhhh, yeah . . . that's it, right there – feels good!" I clenched the rumpled sheet tightly in both fists, and I found myself biting on the pillow below my face as the sheer painful ecstasy carried me away. "Thrust harder . . . oh, yeah, like that! So good!"

"You think it feels good from YOUR end?" came the labored voice of my tormentor, my adversary, my seducer as he plunged his hard shaft deeper into my body. "You should be back here, in the driver's seat!"

I groaned loudly and fell down on my elbows, pushing my rear end higher in the air. My new friend took advantage of the position to sink even deeper, touching my heart, my soul . . . oh, damn! Touching my prostate! Oh, shit! This guy was good! I howled as the pleasure shot through my body, landing smack dab in my hard cock. "Maybe I will," I panted out. Hell, why not? It's the only thing we HAVEN'T done yet!

I couldn't even begin to tell you how long we had been at it. Best 2 outta 3 became best 3 outta 5, then 4 outta 7 . . . then . . . . If there was a sexual position out there we hadn't tried, we just didn't know about it yet. We took short breaks for food and bodily needs, but besides that . . . well . . . I couldn't even tell you what day it was anymore. Somewhere along the line he had deflowered me – the knowledge that he had taken my virginity had caused him to cum almost instantly. I won that round, and I was determined to win this one, too.

"You think you're man enough to take my ass?" he huffed.

"More man than YOU are!" I shot back. He answered me by gripping my hips tightly and slamming home. I cried out ecstatically as he hit my joy buzzer once more, "Do it, baby . . . come on, you can do it, Al. Give it to me . . . oh, God, GIVE IT TO ME!!"

"What the hell do ya think I'm doin'?" he wheezed, and redoubled his efforts.

I just couldn't get enough. "Harder, baby . . . do me harder!"

"I'll give you harder!" And he slapped my right butt cheek, hard.

I shrieked in surprise . . . at how good it felt! "Ugghhh . . . . More! Harder!"

He slapped my left butt cheek. "What do you want 'harder'? My cock, or my hand?"

My entire body was buzzing. "BOTH!" I yelled. "Give me both!!"

Oh, boy! Did he give it to me! SLAP!! SLAP!! SLAP!! Both cheeks were now on fire as he continued to plow into me. I had to stuff the pillow in my mouth so my pleasured screams wouldn't wake the neighbors! Now I knew what Faith and Brandi and all the other girls saw in Al. He was a sexual dynamo!

"C'mon Sammy, do it for me, baby. You know you want to. Give me your cum, baby. Give it to me." He reached under me and took hold of my swollen throbbing horn, pumping it slowly, tenderly, as he cooed in my ear in direct opposition to the assault from behind.

I was ready to explode from the delights he was giving me, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. No, he couldn't win this round – I wouldn't let him. I started undulating, backing up, meeting each plunge, and slapping my behind into his groin with every movement he made, clenching my anal muscles as much as I could. I heard a deep guttural, primal howl deep in his throat, and I knew I had him.

I looked over my left shoulder at him. Oh, yeah . . . I had him good! His flushed, sweaty face was contorted in that mask of rapture I was beginning to adore: his eyes shut, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. He grabbed onto my hips and drilled into me one last time. Grunting with every spurt he shot off, I felt his life force flow deep within me. Then he collapsed, exhausted across my back.

I lay there trying to catch my breath, when I felt his fingers, again, creeping towards my crotch. I protested, with little conviction, "No, Al . . . please don't . . . ."

He whispered in my ear, "Fair's fair, Sammy." He wrapped his talented digits around my super sensitive cock and gently caressed it.

"I thought you didn't believe in playing fair, Al," I quietly reminded him, already pushing myself into his waiting hand.

He rocked his hips a bit against me and kissed the base of my back, "Only during sex, kid. You made me cum . . . now it's your turn."

It didn't take much. Not just because I was so far gone, but also because I never thought anyone could be such a master of sexual technique – until Al. I bit into the pillow one more time as I bellowed my release. When he was satisfied he had gotten every drop, he let my softening penis slide from his hand and placed a tiny, loving kiss between my shoulder blades before rolling off me.

When he was comfortable, I crawled over to him and curled up against his side; with my head resting on his chest I could listen as his racing heart returned to normal. I felt his hand land on my head, his fingers brushing through my hair. The fact they were most likely covered with my semen didn't bother me as much as it probably should have. Why should it? After everything we had done, we were both covered with the stuff. "Guess you won that round, huh, Sammy?" he finally whispered.

"Uh-huh," I agreed. "'Bout time, too."

"So, who's ahead now?"

I was far too busy leaving butterfly kisses on his chest to answer; a mumbled, "Mmmmmhhhhmmm," was all I could manage.

"C'mon, kid – what's the score?" he persisted.

I had reached his right nipple and was contentedly sucking on it like a newborn, which perhaps I was. He reached down and pulled me off his nub, turning my face towards his. He went to open his mouth to ask another stupid question, so I kissed him, like he had taught me to. Tongues clashed, and all conversation was forgotten for the moment.

When lack of breath became a real concern, we reluctantly parted. "I don't know the score," I finally confessed. "I lost track when you were winning 6 to 5."

He just shook his head and muttered, "For a genius, you sure are a budiulo di merda, you know that?"

I just smiled at his colorful Italian phrase. "Why am I a fuckin' asshole?" I asked sweetly.

The shocked look on his face was priceless. "You speak Italian?"

"Uh-huh . . . and French, German, Spanish, Japanese, a few others . . . . You never know when it'll come in handy." I gave him another kiss. "By the way, I really didn't appreciate some of the things you called me in the ring, either. Now, why am I an asshole?"

He heaved a deep sigh. "'Cause if we don't know the score, we're gonna have to start all over again!"

"OH, NO!" I moaned in mock horror. "Not that! Anything but that."

"Well it's your own fault. If you had been a better score keeper, we wouldn't be in this mess right now."

"Oh, well, if we have no choice . . . ." I reached down and cupped his still-soft member. "Round one, coming up."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . I'm an old man, remember? I need my rest."

"What about all that Tai Chi you do? For your 'staying power'?" I teased.

"Kid, even *I* have my limits!" But while his lips were saying "NO", his lower anatomy was definitely agreeing with me.

"Hmmm, I don't know, Al . . . seems like the little guy's up for some more fun."

"Yeah, well, it always had a mind of its own. But if we don't give 'em a rest, they're bound to fall off." He brought my lips into his again before he sighed, "You're insatiable, you know that, kid?"

I chuckled, "I've been called a lot of things . . . but never that." I gently caressed his over-worked organ while tenderly nibbling along his chest. It got quiet between us as a nice, easy silence descended upon the room. No need for words, just the little slurps I was making and the pleased murmurs of my companion. "I never would've taken you for a cuddler, Al," I sighed, happily.

He laughed even as he pulled me in tighter. "Kick in the butt, ain't it?"

I liked it – it was nice. Part of me was shocked by my behavior. I mean, I had never so much as even looked at another male with any kind of sexual feelings whatsoever. But the rest of me felt . . . what? Relief? Peace? A sense of serenity and self I had never experienced in my life? Were these tendencies always within me and I was just too afraid to admit them, as Al said? Was I gay? Bi? Just sexually liberated?

Or . . . was it just Al? What was it about him? How does he do things to me that no one has ever done? How does he make me feel things I've never felt before? The way we had been fighting and bitching and sniping – could it have been a case of sexual tension all that time? And now that the tension had been released, what would happen to us?

I felt Al's arms wrap around me, hugging me closer to him while he gently stroked my back and shoulders with tender, loving touches. I again sighed contentedly, never remembering ever feeling so safe and secure. I could have gladly stayed like that forever, cuddling against Al: just one heart – just one soul.

"Al?" I whispered into the silent room.

"Hmmmm?" he responded, barely coherent.

"Was I better than Brandi?"

"Huhhhh?" he asked, groggily. It's quite possible he had started falling asleep.

"Well, you said Brandi had the sweetest ass in America . . . I guess I was wondering where I compare, that's all."

That seemed to wake him up. "Oh . . . ahhh – well, Sammy . . ." he stammered, "to tell you the truth, I never did nothin' with Brandi. She's just a . . . well, an associate. I was just tryin' to get your goat that day."

I all but jumped out of the bed. "I KNEW IT! I knew your stories about her and Faith weren't true."

"Oh, no . . . the ones about Faith WERE true." He ducked his head and had the decency to look contrite. "Sorry about that, kid."

"Oh . . . ." I had mixed feelings about that, mostly jealousy. Oh, not that Faith had slept with him, but that HE had slept with Faith. The thought of him with someone else bothered me. Was it natural to feel this possessive so quickly?

"Hey, if it'll make you feel any better, she talked about you the whole time," he told me.

"She did?" I was startled. I didn't even think she knew I existed.

"Yeah. I may have had her body, but you had her heart."

I heaved a martyred sigh. "Just once, Al – just ONCE in my life, I wish *I* got the body and someone else got the heart."

"You never know, kid. It could be arranged . . . ever do a three-way?"

I was quite startled by the question. "Ahhh, no, that's okay, Al. Nice of you to offer, though."

He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "Eh, probably just as well. Between you and Faith, I'd end up in traction." He kissed me on the shoulder. "And for the record, Sammy, I'd put your ass against Brandi's any day."

I chuckled softly, secretly pleased by the compliment (Brandi DID have a nice ass) and snuggled with my lover. Lover? Was that even possible? Just last week, I hated this man's guts – and now I was calling him my lover? What more could Calavicci do to me? I coiled into him and went back to my nipple-nibbling task as once more the gentle, easy silence fell around us. And into that silence, I voiced the question that had been bothering me for over a fortnight. "What was her name?" I asked softly.

His fingers had curled into my hair. "Who?"

"Your wife. The one who left you?"

"Beth." He said it in a hallowed tone, like a caress. "Her name was Beth."

"Beth." I let the name pass my lips. "I didn't know, Al."

"Well, when would I have told you?"

"No . . . I mean . . . when we were fighting." I tilted my head and looked into his deep, sad eyes, eyes that still reflected the love and hurt he felt for this woman. "I said some horrible things to you that day, Al. I didn't know about what happened. And what I said about you dying over there . . . ." I heard the hateful words echo in my head, and a shiver went through my body. "God, I wish I could take them all back."

Gentle fingers brushed my bangs off my forehead and a tiny, understanding smile reached down to me. "Hey, kid, don't beat yerself up. It's okay. It was the heat of battle – nothing's sacred. 'Sides, you didn't know. Not many people do."

"Still . . . I'm sorry, Al. I'm sorry for what I said, and . . . I'm sorry she left you." I tenderly ran my fingers along his cheek, my thumb brushing his parted lips. "She didn't realize what she had."

"No, I think she did . . . that's why she did it." His short, bitter laugh was part self-depreciating, part self-preservation, and I sighed as he bowed his head slightly, kissing the palm of my hand. He looked down at me and held my gaze, saying, "You know, I . . . I have some apologizing to do, too. About your brother . . . ."

I had to look away from him, the pain too raw. "No, Al. It's okay," I fairly pleaded.

"I have to. Shit, kid, what I said about him! I didn't mean it, Sam. You gotta believe me. I didn't mean word one. I was just angry and frustrated and I was just lashing out."

"I know," I said quietly, wishing he would stop, not wishing to relive those moments again when he had called me a coward. When he had looked into my heart and had seen the truth, had seen my secret shame.

He went back to petting my head. "I wouldn't say those things about ANYONE who was over there. It took a brave man to go to 'Nam . . . ." His hand slipped down to stroke my face, and he whispered, "And it took an even braver man not to."

"You don't believe that, Al, any more than I do," I scoffed, afraid I'd start to cry. "I was a draft-dodger, just like you said."

His hand was entwined in my hair again. "No, Sammy, you're not. You didn't belong over there," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Your death wouldn't have changed a Goddamn thing. You just woulda been another dead soldier in a war filled with them. That would've been no way to honor your brother. You belonged here, safe. With your mind – maybe you'll help make this world a better place. That would be the greatest tribute you could give Tom."

Tilting my chin up from his chest, he placed the tiniest kiss on me, just a fleeting brush of his sweet lips on mine. Staring down at me, his velvety dark eyes twinkling with mischief, he gave me an impish smile. "Wait right there – I have a surprise for you."

"I'm sure you do," I quipped.

"Just close yer eyes, wiseass," he muttered, and crawled out of the bed. I did as he requested and was patiently sitting there when he came back a few seconds later. "Are they still closed?" he asked, from the doorway.

"Uh-huh . . . where's my 'surprise'?" I demanded, petulantly.

The bed gave as he sat down beside me. "Right here, baby." I felt the cold metal wrap around my neck and a familiar disk hit my chest. I opened my eyes to find Tom's dog tags hanging around my throat. I grasped them in disbelief, then stared at my 'benefactor' contemptuously.

"You had them the whole time!" I accused him. "You pompinaio {cocksucker}!" I said, flinging at him the same Italian curses he seemed to enjoy using so much.

He put his hands up, placating me. "Sam, just listen . . . ."

"I KNEW you took them, you che va in culo a susa madre {mother fucker}!"

"Hey, you watch that mouth! And leave my mother outta this! I didn't steal them, all right? But I ran into the shithead that DID, okay?"

"How?" I asked, a bit calmer, but not quite ready to accept his story.

"I caught him trying to break into MY locker," he said, and he unconsciously rubbed his knuckles.

"You didn't hurt him too badly, did you, Al?"

"Let's just say he won't be breakin' into any more lockers any time soon." He paused for a second to regard me, saying, "Where the hell did a nice kid from the Heartland like you learn to swear like a Sicilian sailor anyway?"

"Repeated viewings of _The Godfather_ ," I deadpanned, clutching the tags tighter in my hand. When I next spoke there was a slight quiver to my voice, "I never thought I ever see them again. I . . . I don't know what to say."

He chuckled, "Well, THANK YOU would be a good start."

"I . . . ." I looked down at the bedspread, embarrassed. "I was so wrong about you, Al. You're not the conniving, awful, mean-spirited, evil son of a bitch I thought you were."

"No, I am. You were right the first time." He opened his arms to me and I crawled right into them, never wanting to leave them again, trusting this man in a way I couldn't begin to understand. He held me and rocked me softly as my mind harkened back to that horrible day, the day we found out my big brother was never coming home.

"When they came to the house and gave us his belongings . . . I've been wearing them ever since. I know it may sound silly but . . . they make me feel closer to him somehow." I felt the tears building and shut my eyes tight, trying to stop them, but a few still leaked out and landed on Al's shoulder.

Al sensed my distress and hugged me protectively to him. "Let it out, kid," he encouraged. "I'm here for you."

"I'm okay," I lied, melting into his embrace. "It's just . . . well, I don't have much left of him anymore. Since we lost . . . ." I caught myself, not wanting to admit my family was bankrupt. "Since we SOLD the farm, all I've got left are a couple of photo albums, a few letters, my memories . . . and these." I fingered the precious medals again.

"Glad I could help, kid," he said, modestly.

"I . . . I don't know how to thank you, Al."

"I can think of a few ways," he leered, pulling me tightly to him and tipping my face towards his. I didn't resist – I didn't WANT to resist. When his lips hit mine, I felt the whole world dissolve around me until it was just me and Al and the bed. That's all I wanted in life now. I kissed him back with a passion and a fervor I didn't know was within me.

He seemed surprised, but not for long, as he lost himself in the kiss. Carefully, he pushed me backwards and rolled on top of me, all the time our mouths and tongues glued together. God, could this man kiss! He pulled away from me and his dark eyes shimmered with desire – for me. Oh, boy! "Hey, kid," he rasped. "Ready for that rematch?"

"I thought you said you needed some rest."

He took my hand and placed it on his burgeoning hard-on. "Looks like the rest worked. I'm raring to go."

I giggled, "It's too bad you couldn't get a doctorate in sex . . . then you wouldn't have had to steal my thesis."

"YOUR thesis?" He rolled off me and stared at me, incredulously. "You're like a fuckin' broken record. Get it through yer thick head. It was mine, Beckett, and you know it!"

I pushed myself up until I was leaning against the pillowed backboard. "C'mon, Al . . . are we going to start this again?" I said, easily falling back into our original argument, passion pushed to the backburner.

He shot back, "You're the one who started it!"

"Look, that computer is the means to achieve the goals I've been working on my whole life . . . ."

"Yeah, but at MY expense! You're supposed to be so fucking smart . . . couldn't you think up your OWN damn computer!?!"

Now I was starting to get steamed. "It IS my own damn computer! I started working on its design last semester."

"Bullshit! I handed in the proposal last semester!"

"Look, Al," I tried to explain with my last ounce of patience. "Spence has been helping me with my string theory of time continuum on and off for two years now. And when he suggested the hybrid computer could possibly . . . ."

"SPENCE suggested it?" he interrupted, taken aback.

"Yeah."

He sat up in the bed and knelt in front of me. Grabbing my shoulders tightly, he looked deeply into my eyes, saying, "Beckett, this is really important . . . WHEN did he 'suggest' it?"

"During Thanksgiving break. We were up at his cabin and he mentioned it during the dinner. I remember because we were so excited, we left the turkey and all the food on the table and worked on it half the night in the den. Why?"

He released his grip on my shoulders and ran his fingers down my arms until he had reached my hands; he clasped them, continuing to hold my gaze. "Sam . . . I handed in the proposal for the parallel hybrid computer in October. Spence wasn't my teacher at the time, but we had become friends and I had discussed it with him."

This couldn't be happening. "Al, please tell me you're joking."

He shook his head 'no'. "I can show you the Department Head's acceptance letter if you want. It's dated October 11."

This REALLY couldn't be happening. All this time, he had been telling the truth. "Then I DID steal your thesis!" I could barely choke the words out.

He gave me a huge hug as the tears sprang to my eyes. All that hard work, for nothing! "No, Sam . . . Spence stole it. And gave it to you."

I just looked at him; he just looked at me. And we both said, "Oh, shit!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the show went to great lengths to demonstrate that Sam Beckett couldn't speak or understand Italian, we have taken liberties with this canon. After discussing it, we are of the conclusion that his inability to communicate in Italian came from the Swiss cheese effects of the leaping and not because he never learned it. After all, we know he's fluent in seven modern languages, INCLUDING Japanese, French, German, and Spanish. The other three are left up in the air. We hope this inclusion does not offend traditionalists. (Besides, we find it hard to believe Sam was best friends with Al and DIDN'T pick up any Italian!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Sunday, April 17, 1977**

**AL:**

Revenge. I didn't care what the kid said, Spence deserved to get it, and get it he would. Givin' him my thesis, indeed!

I sat and watched Beckett as he snuggled up against me, completely oblivious to the world around him. What had he done to me? Talk about losing control – I had fallen for the kid, and fallen for him bad.

And now I knew all my anger towards him was almost completely unjustified. My mouth had literally dropped open when he told me virtually all the money he got from tutoring went to helping his mom and sister back in Indiana, and what little he had left over he was trying to pay off his other college loans. I couldn't help but feel something towards him as I thought over all I had learned about him. Guess maybe he didn't have the charmed life everyone believed.

Then, of course, there was the sex. These last few days had been filled with some of the most absolutely mind-blowing sex of my life – and comin' from me, that's sayin' somethin'! Yet it was so much more than sex. There was the way he'd cuddle with me after, in a way that actually made me look forward to it. And the way he'd look at me during the heights of passion, his eyes filled with tenderness and caring and joy. And the way he'd make me feel special and cherished and, yes, even loved. Sam Beckett was definitely one of a kind.

Tomorrow was Monday – which meant class, and I still hadn't come up with how to make Spence pay for takin' my thesis from me. Not that I think he did it consciously. I was a pretty good judge of character – well, usually – and I just knew he wasn't that kind of guy.

That's when I heard the knock at the front door. I could tell that my bed mate would not be waking up any time soon, so I slipped out from beneath the covers, grabbed a nearby robe (which was way too big for me, but it was better than too little), and headed into the living room.

I don't know who the guy was expecting, but it certainly wasn't me. I recognized him as one of Sam's tutoring students; he was standing uneasily in the hallway, and I nearly gagged as his overwhelming bad breath escaped his gaping mouth.

"Uh," he stammered, and I couldn't help the feral smile that started to grace my face. "I was looking for Dr. Beckett?"

"He's . . . not up," I said, with a little snicker. Well, he was probably up, my filthy mind added – just not awake. "Can I help ya?"

"Yes," the guy faltered again, clearly embarrassed at what I represented. Wonder how much of it had to do with how I was dressed and how much of it was because of WHO I was. I mean, it's not like too many people would've pegged us together. "I found this over the weekend," he said, holding out a small stack of paper. "It's Dr. Beckett's. I don't think he meant to throw it away; it's his thesis."

His thesis, huh? Well, that might be an interesting read. I had only gotten a few quick glimpses, after all. "He threw it away?" I asked, concerned.

"Well, I'm sure HE didn't do it," he started rambling. " He probably left it somewhere and someone thought it was just trash and threw it out and I probably wouldn't have known it was his – see, it doesn't have a cover? – but he's talked about it during some of his tutoring sessions and I recognized it instantly and I mean, how many people are writing papers about parallel hybrid computers, right?"

 _Two, at least_ . . . my mind filled in, and I was about to finally get to see his whole proposal for myself. "I'll make sure he gets it," I said, making a grab for the pages. The little guy pulled them back, clearly not wanting to upset me but bravely wanting to make sure they'd find their way back to their rightful owner. I had to give the kid points for loyalty towards his friend. "Look," I said, leaning towards him and giving a conspirator's whisper, "if I wanted to do somethin' to him, doncha think I would've done it already?"

His eyes instantly darted around the room briefly, as if to check for bloodstains or a body, before he accepted my answer and reluctantly handed the precious paper over. "Would you tell Dr. Beckett I'll see him at the tutoring session tomorrow night?"

I gave a nod, my eyes already scanning the pages in my hand. By the water damage, I could tell this was the version I had gotten with my water balloons . . . God, was it only last Wednesday? Seemed like ages ago, but at the same time it felt like it was just yesterday. I closed the door, not even worrying about getting the guy's name (hell, Sam'll know who I'm talkin' about), and headed into the kitchen.

While it was technically dinnertime, Sam and I had lost all track of the time in our feverish exploration of each other's bodies and boundaries, and so I started up a pot of coffee and set about looking for something to eat.

His refrigerator was about as empty as my stomach, but he had some eggs and some sliced ham and cheese. I also managed to rustle up an onion that didn't look too life threatening, so I was able to whip up a semi-decent frittata. I sat down at the table with my meal and began reading through Sam's thesis, willing myself to view it with an open mind, one no longer jaded by my ire towards a thief.

++++++++

"So THAT'S where my robe went to."

My head jerked up from the thesis as I heard Sam's voice behind me. He stood there, eyes glazed over in spent desire and exhaustion, hair mussed beyond help, and wearing just a pair of red striped boxers . . . he looked absolutely mouth-watering. I caught my breath as I found myself getting hard yet again, once more losing any semblance of control when he was around.

"You want it back?" I asked, playfully.

He just smiled and ducked his head, whispering, "Maybe later. What smells so good in here?"

"I made some extra," I said automatically, gesturing towards the pan on the stove. "Knew you'd eventually need more in your body than what I've been supplying you."

He blushed (after all we've done and experienced these last few days, he still had the capacity to blush?) and moved forward, placing a sweet kiss to the top of my forehead. "Thank God," he sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder. "And good morning," he finished, bringing his lips down to mine.

For a minute, I lost myself in the feel of his lips, his hands, his body, until I finally, regrettably, broke away. "Actually, Beckett, it's evening," I said, and gave him a slight push towards the food. "Sunday evening, to be exact."

His eyes automatically lifted up to the small kitchen window and he released an incredulous sigh. "Jeez," he said, moving towards the cabinets and grabbing a plate. "Talk about being lost to your hormones," he joked. He served himself a generous portion, and dug in with gusto. After a couple of bites he gave me a huge smile, and said, "This is delicious. What is it?"

"It's a frittata. Sort of an Italian omelet."

"I've heard of them but never had one before." He took another couple of bites. "It's wonderful."

I smirked, "Well, I do my best."

"I know," he replied, his cheeks turning red again. Goddamn, he was so freakin' cute! He poured himself a cup of coffee and joined me at the kitchen table. Taking a seat, he gestured to the papers in front of me. "Whatcha reading?"

I didn't respond right away. I mean, despite us spending the last four days working on certain aspects of our little personality clash, I wasn't sure how he'd feel about my reading his thesis. Before I could answer him, he picked up one of the sheets, his eyes getting instantly dark and dangerous. "Where did you get this?"

"Ahhh, one of the kids you tutor brought it over. Little guy? Bad breath?"

"You mean Gushie?"

"Gushie? What the hell kind of name is that?"

"Later. How did he get it?"

"Said he found it in a trashcan. Thought you may have lost it and someone tossed it by mistake."

"That someone was me, and it wasn't by mistake. He should have left it there."

"Why? Because I hit it with a couple of water balloons? It still works as a rough draft."

"No, because I meant to throw it away," he replied, attempting to sound blasé about the whole thing. " It's worthless garbage. It belongs in a trashcan."

"Worthless?" I asked, flabbergasted. "First of all, this ain't worthless – it's fuckin' brilliant! And second of all, and more importantly, this ain't NOTHIN' like my thesis!"

His eyes lit up at my praise, and he smiled bashfully. "Brilliant?" he asked, doubtfully, his voice sounding suddenly child-like.

"Yeah, the most brilliant, inspired, exciting thing I've ever read." His eyes sparkled and I thought he was going to start to cry. "I mean, when I heard rumors you were postulating a theory on time travel, I was ready to throw you in the funny farm personally. But after reading this," I said, holding up his thesis, "I'm not so sure. You could actually do it."

"Spence thought it was ridiculous," he said, trying hard not to show how much it hurt (and not succeeding). He started pushing his food around on his plate as he muttered, "He said it was just incomprehensible gibberish."

Knowing how much Sam respected Spence, that comment must've destroyed him. No wonder he threw it away. "He just didn't understand it, that's all."

"And you do?" he asked, quietly, hesitantly.

I shrugged. "Hell, I'd be lying if I did. Some of this goes over my head, too, but the foundation is sound and plausible. Of course, you have a problem with your computer . . . ."

"What kind of problem?" he shot back, instantly defensive.

"Well, the design is okay, but you've got the programming all wrong," I explained.

"Wrong? What do you mean, wrong?" he said, his voice rising, getting more argumentative.

"Whoa, whoa . . . I don't need the attitude, kid," I let him know in no uncertain terms. "I'm just trying to help."

He let out a cleansing breath and gave an awkward little grin. "Sorry. I'm not used to people telling me I'm wrong . . . especially about something academic."

I had to smile. "It's okay to be wrong sometimes, Sam. It just shows you're human."

He gave me a smile back. "Alright, hot-shot, so what's wrong with my computer?"

And I started sharing MY thesis with him. He was totally stunned. "An ego? You want to build a computer with an ego?"

"Of course. Anyone can build a huge number cruncher. You need a computer that can learn and reason and understand the human element . . . ."

"You're talking about making it sentient," he whispered, thunderstruck. "Holy fuck! And they thought *I* was crazy!"

"Well, you are," I told him truthfully.

He shot me a look, and a smile. "Just shut up and tell me more."

"How can I tell you more if I shut . . . ." I never got to finish the sentence as he stepped over to me and silenced me with his soft lips. He pulled away and the fire and sparkle in his eyes set my insides aflame.

"Illuminate me, Bingo," he breathlessly begged. Tell me, how can you turn down an offer like that? As we spoke through the night, he started getting more excited and more animated, his ideas spilling forth faster than I could follow them. One second he'd be pacing around the room; the next, he'd be sketching on the back of his 'useless' thesis. The next, he'd be back up and bouncing off the walls again, spouting theories and equations off the top of his head that I couldn't even BEGIN to comprehend. Just watching him I was getting tired, but his enthusiasm was very contagious and galvanizing.

That night I got my first taste of the scope of Sam Beckett's genius, and it made my head spin. Spence had been wrong, not just about his thesis, but also when he once told me I could've exceeded Sam's achievements given the same advantages in life. I mean, I'm no mental slug, but I wasn't in Sam's league. I even wondered if Spence really knew what he had in Sam – his was a mind that comes along maybe once in a generation. And we were lucky enough to be able to witness it first-hand.

Man, and I thought he was inventive and energetic IN bed! But he was as excited and passionate about our discussion as he was about sex. In fact, I was beginning to think he was MORE excited! When was the last time his mind was truly challenged? When was the last time this man was as stimulated as he was now? (Well, that would've been this morning, but you know what I mean.)

I was totally captivated watching him. He was simply dazzling in action, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest . . . and in my nether regions. He had his back to me, drawing figures in the air with his fingers on an invisible chalkboard, and I was staring at that beautiful backside of his when he must've sensed my distraction, because he just turned to me and asked, "What?"

I gazed at him through lust-filled eyes. "Do you know how much I want to fuck you right now?"

He took one look at me, and the desire and want in his eyes could not be disguised. I wondered briefly if it was me or his theorems that had him so worked up. "No. How much?" he asked, coyly.

I just leaned back in the chair and opened his robe to reveal my raging hard-on. "This much."

"Hmmm, that much, huh?" he teased. He strolled over to where I was sitting, and treated me to a fleeting kiss of his luscious lips – lips I had already gotten addicted to. Gee, guess it was ME after all! "Well, I suppose if you catch me, you can have me." And with that, he raced . . . no, strolled . . . no, shuffled at a snail's pace to the bedroom. I caught him, all right, and threw him on the bed.

I'm sure we woke the neighbors three dorms away. Sam was an absolute animal. And kinky! I would've never given the boy credit. He wanted me to talk computers to him . . . design, software, programming. When I started talking bytes and megahertz and RAM . . . whoa, mama! He got so fucking turned on! And soon, so did I. Who could've thought computers could be so erotic? We were both totally out of control, and it wasn't long before I had notched another win in our on-going sexual challenge.

What the hell was this beautiful man doing to me? All I had wanted to do was fuck him and get him out of my system, just like all the others. Instead, here I was, cuddling with him, enjoying the afterglow of yet another amazing sexual encounter. This was NOT part of my plan. But I was slowly learning that it would be easier to tell myself to stop breathing than it would to kick Sam Beckett out of my bed, or my life. Instead, I wrapped my arms tighter around him and held him even closer. I buried my face in his neck and couldn't help but say, quietly, "Well, kid, looks like this time you got both the body AND the heart . . . mine."

"Really?" he asked, his eyes cracking open. Shit – I thought he had been asleep.

I looked down, knowing my ability to lie to him was gone as quickly as my anger towards him, and gave a sweet, gentle kiss on the forehead. "Yeah, I guess so. Kick in the butt, ain't it? Me, fallin' for you."

"No more bizarre than me falling for you," he answered, and he started nibbling on my lips, giving me small bites around.

I broke away, and couldn't help the joke that bubbled up to break me away from the mushiness. "God, I hate you," I repeated, my tone completely belying the words.

He picked up on the joke, and the reference, and smiled as he responded, "Hate you more," and lightly brushed my lips with his. And before anything else could be said, we were well on the way to another battle of the libidos.

++++++++

It woke me up around 3 a.m., with Sam fast asleep and still curled contentedly against my side: how to combine getting respect for Sam's theories and revenge on Spence for giving him my idea. I wrapped my arms protectively around my newfound lover and fell back to sleep, a smile gracing my face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Gushie. I admit: that was always one of my favorite parts of fanfics that were prequels to the series - seeing how Gushie (and Tina, for that matter) got to know our crazy boyz.


	17. Chapter 17

**Monday, April 18, 1977**

**SEBASTIAN LONIGRO:**

I watched from my podium at the front of the class as the last stragglers rushed to their seats, scanning the room once more for Sam, but he was a no-show. For the first time since I'd known him, he was going to miss two of my classes in a row. And I was concerned.

I understood when he didn't show up Friday. The fight must've taken a lot out of him – it did Al, too. Neither had been in class the next day. The campus was still abuzz with what had happened and I could barely control my students, so their absence was actually a blessing. I could only imagine the chaos if they HAD been there.

But to miss today, too? Something was wrong. I noted quickly that Al was missing as well, but I wasn't too worried. Al marched to his own drummer, and it wasn't unusual for him to miss a whole week of my classes, especially if he happened to have a new flame. (He missed A LOT of my classes.) But not Sam.

He couldn't still be sulking about the thesis, could he? No, he's more professional than that. I knew he was disappointed, and it was obvious he had put a lot of work into it, but now was not the time to hit the review board with something like that. He'd have other opportunities to show the world his brilliance, and once he calmed down, he'd understand that. He was a bright boy – he'd figure out I was right.

Or was he still upset over the fight? I know I was rather brusque with him that day, but when I saw Al flat on that mat, unconscious, I got scared. I didn't mean to snap at him like I did, and maybe I should have checked in with him to make sure he was all right, but at that moment, Al was our main concern.

He was out cold for a few minutes, and even after he came to, he needed some attention and care. Sam had done quite a number on him. Vic, one of the supervisors at the gym, walked Sam home and reported back to me that he seemed okay. By the time we were done attending to Al, I decided I was probably the last person in the world Sam wanted to see. So I gave him some space, figuring I could always take him out to lunch today after class and apologize to him properly.

Just as I turned back to the blackboard, the door flew open, crashing into the wall, and Al came tearing into the room like hell on wheels. He skidded to a stop as all eyes turned to him, including mine. "Ooops," he smirked, somewhat chagrined. "Don't know my own strength." The class burst into giggles as he took his usual seat, turning his attention to me. Seeing him instantly conjured up a third scenario for Sam's absence – a very unsettling thought that Al might have done something to the young man.

I waited until the end of the lesson before speaking to Al, catching him by the arm just before he left the room. Not in the mood for any of his usual games, I came right to the point. "What did you do to Sam?"

His eyes got huge and he seemed stung. "I don't know what you're talking about, Spence."

"Stop with the bullshit, Al. The last time I saw either of you, he had just kicked your ass in front of half the student body. And now today, he's not in class. And neither one of you were here Friday. Something tells me all these incidents are connected somehow."

"Calm down. Maybe he just overslept or something."

"For your sake, it better NOT be 'something'. So help me God, Al, if you harmed that boy, I'll make sure this campus is never graced with your presence again!"

He put up his hands defensively. "C'mon, Spence – you know me . . . ."

"Exactly my point. I DO know you, and I know how you feel about Sam."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel like that about him anymore."

"What do you mean by that?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I took your advice, and I went over to his place to talk to him after the fight." He must've seen the fear in my face because he laughed, "I just figured the conflict had gone on too long and it was time to end it. So, we talked for a while and worked some things out."

"Why do I have a hard time believing you, Al?"

"I swear I didn't do anything bad to him, Spence. God's truth."

"So, you just 'talked'?"

"Uh-huh, and you were right . . . he's not such a bad guy, once you get to know him."

I had to laugh, "You're always full of surprises, Al." I slung an arm around his shoulder and led him out of the room. "You weren't too hard on him, were you?"

He just quirked an eyebrow and replied, "Well, I tried not to be, but sometimes he just asks for it, you know?"

"So you don't know why he missed class today, huh?"

"Not a clue, Spence, but I'm sure he's fine. Hey, can I buy you lunch?"

"No, I . . . I think I'm going to stop by his room and check on him, just to be sure. Catch ya later, Bingo."

+++++

My office was on the way to Sam's dorm, so I ran in to drop off my briefcase and papers. I was about to leave when the phone rang. As I was sitting there talking to my brother, Ian, I heard a quiet rapping on the open door. I turned to see Sam standing there, looking none the worse for wear. In fact, the kid looked great – he almost seemed to be glowing. Apparently Al had told me the truth when he said no harm had come to my favorite student. I smiled in relief, and motioned him inside.

I watched him wander around my office as Ian prattled on: picking up various knickknacks and putting them back, reading the framed articles I had on the walls, perusing the titles of the books that jammed the bookcase. He seemed to love my overly cluttered office – constantly looking for the new things I had added since his last visit. (And he always found them, too.)

He finally stood by the open window, enjoying the beautiful spring day, and patiently waiting until I could tactfully end my phone call. I hung up and smiled at my friend. "Sam. I was just coming over to see you."

"Until Ian called, right?"

"How'd you know it was him?"

He laughed. "You always get this look on your face when you're talking to him. Like you wish you were somewhere else."

"Sometimes I wish I was." I leaned back in my chair, and picked up the pipe on my desk. I lit it and took a few satisfying puffs. "I'm glad to see you . . . you really had me worried when you didn't show up for class this morning."

"I know . . . I'm sorry about that. I had a pretty rough weekend and I guess I overslept. Did I miss anything?"

"The kids would say no, but I'll get the notes to you." I took a couple more puffs on my pipe. "You missed Friday, too," I couldn't help pointing out.

"Uh-huh . . . . I guess you could say I was sorta tied up." Was he blushing, or was it my imagination? A girl. It had to be a girl. That would explain why he hadn't been around this weekend, and the reason for him oversleeping. Maybe he had finally worked up the courage to ask Faith out on a date? Oh, I hoped so. He had really taken the break-up with Michelle last summer pretty hard, and I knew he was lonely.

"Please, Sam," I said, motioning to the old leather couch in the middle of the room, "have a seat."

"Oh . . . ahh, no – that's okay, Spence. I prefer standing." There was no hiding how red he was now. "Besides, I can't stay long anyway. I just wanted to stop by and tell you I've been thinking about what you said last week, about my thesis."

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know you want to prove yourself. It's just . . . ."

"Spence, it's all right. I know you were just watching out for me and . . . and I really appreciate it." He picked up a small bust of Albert Einstein I use as a paperweight and studied it in his hands. "You were right. This isn't the time or the place for that presentation. I should have written the paper we agreed on."

I put down the pipe and went over to my troubled friend, clasping his hand. "Your time will come, Sam, and some day, they'll make busts of you, too."

He laughed. "I just hope I have better hair." He placed the figure down and fixed me with those magical eyes of his – a potent mixture of intelligence and intensity, but as gentle as the man who possessed them. "I have a big favor to ask of you, Spence."

"Anything for you, Sam, you know that."

"Can . . . can I borrow the cabin this weekend? I mean, that is if you're not using it. I . . . I want to get some work in on my new thesis. I don't have much time left, and I need some . . . inspiration."

"Sure thing, kid – that's no problem." I went back to the desk drawer and dug out the keys. "You want me to join you? Help you work on it, maybe give you a sounding board?"

"No . . . ahhh . . . I'd like to go alone, if you don't mind." (Oh, SURE you'll be alone, Sam. Now I KNEW there had to be a girl. Good for him. At least SOMETHING positive was going to come of that fight with Al.) "The last few weeks have been pretty stressful and I just need to get away for a few days."

"Completely understandable." I found the keys and handed them over to the young man. "Do you need a ride?" Okay, I'll admit it. I was fishing now. I was just curious who the girl may be.

"No, I've got some transportation. Thanks." He jingled the keys in his hand before slipping them into his jeans pocket. Looking up, he gave me a huge smile, one that touched his eyes, and he whispered, "Thanks for everything, Sebastian." Then he did something totally unexpected. Oh, not that he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me – if you were a friend of Sam's, you learned fast the boy was quite a hugger. No, it was the kiss I didn't expect: a tender, affectionate, friendly kiss on the cheek, lasting perhaps two seconds too long. Nothing overt, but startling nonetheless.

He gave me one last squeeze, then was gone, before I could even spit out, "You're welcome."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit: I snorted when J.D. handed me this chapter. To go to the POV of Sam's teacher was brilliant on her part.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep - you read right - this is the second to the last chapter: technically, the last, as the next chapter is an epilogue. It's a long one as well.

**Friday, April 22, 1977**

Damn! I can't believe I'm doing this. My right hand shifted down into second as the hill climbed even higher, my mind thinking back to the events that brought me here, driving to my cabin to confront . . . . God, could Sam have really flipped out on me?

Wednesday in class, Al had been one of the first to arrive – definitely unusual behavior. And as the other students filtered in, he had looked around, jittery, almost . . . nervous. Al Calavicci? Nervous? Almost, dare I say it, scared?

And his demeanor only worsened as the last person meandered in, who just happened to be Sam Beckett. "Sorry I'm late," he said, sounding almost as if he did it intentionally. He proceeded to sit next to Al and I couldn't help but witness the jump Al gave as a result. Sam had laid a hand on Al's shoulder, almost to calm him down – making me give a double take. What was going on here? I felt I had fallen into the Twilight Zone!

The class had been uneventful, aside from the fact that every time I tried to bring Al into the conversation, either Sam would answer for him or give him a look that clearly indicated permission.

Afterwards, Sam had walked up to talk to me – nothing unusual there. However, Al following in his wake like an abused puppy WAS unusual. "I wanted to thank you again for the use of the cabin this weekend, Spence," Sam said. "It's going to come in . . . very handy," and he gave a look towards Al. Al seemed like a deer in headlights, mesmerized by those hazel eyes. "It's going to be so nice to be up there alone."

"But, Sam . . . " came the voice of Al. Sam? Since when was Calavicci on a first name basis with this man?

Sam, however, seemed unfazed by the use of his first name, and had turned to Al with a glare. "I will be ALONE," he clarified. He had turned back to me, and with a gentle squeeze to my hand, he continued, "Completely, utterly alone." And then he WINKED at me!

I had had a sudden recollection of Al's claims that I was sleeping with Sam . . . and how I had said Sam was too innocent for that. And my mind suddenly reassessed the hugs, the glances, the kiss. DAMN!

And as if that wasn't enough, today Al didn't even show up to class. I had asked around, but no one had seen him since Wednesday, when he had left with Sam. With Sam.

DAMN!! When did all of this spiral out of control? I had only myself to blame – telling Sam what I did about his thesis, and not checking to see if he was all right after the fight. I remembered how Calavicci had responded when I asked what he had done to Sam – how he looked shocked that I would even imagine him doing something bad to the kid. And I remembered that blow Sam had given him in the ring. Maybe I had the wrong image. Maybe SAM had done something to AL.

But where did my cabin come into all of this? Al seemed quite aware that Sam had asked for it, had even looked . . . anxious about it. My original thoughts of Sam using it to get a girl were far behind me, and horrible images of him using it somehow to harm Al had replaced them.

I normally don't change my mind about someone like Sam this quickly, but there was no denying the boy had been acting very strange these last few weeks: falling asleep in my class, the streaking incident, his manipulation of Dean Edwards, those boxing matches, that kiss in my office, and his thesis paper, with all that nonsense about traveling in time. And normally, I would be the first to admit that I was acting irrationally, jumping to conclusions and using circumstantial evidence. Normally. But normality doesn't come into it when you have what happened to me today.

After the class was over, and Sam was long gone, I was approached by one of the students he's been tutoring. While Wolfgang wasn't in any of my classes, I had recommended Beckett when his professor asked if I knew someone who could work with his gifted student. I chose Sam, not just because I knew he needed the extra money, but also because I figured he'd be able to handle Gushie's particular . . . ah . . . hygiene problem with kindness and tact. The match had turned out well – the business arrangement growing into a friendship, one both boys needed.

"Uh, sir?" he said nervously.

I was packing up my things, the class being my last one for the day, and wasn't exactly in the mood to stick around – it being Friday and all. "Yeah?"

"I was wondering, sir," he said, averting his eyes that made me wonder how nervous this guy WAS, "if you've seen Mr. Calavicci recently?"

How in the HELL did he know that's exactly who I had been worried about? "No, actually. I was asking around myself, but no one seems to have seen him since Wednesday. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I was wondering if he had given Dr. Beckett my message from Sunday."

WHAT? "What message?" I asked, warily, somehow feeling like I was on a minefield filled with nuclear weapons.

"About the tutoring session on Monday."

"And you would've told Calavicci to give him that because . . . ?" I trailed off.

"Well, sir," he started to babble, "I had gone to Dr. Beckett's on Sunday, because I had found his thesis over the weekend in a trashcan, and you and I both know Dr. Beckett wouldn't have thrown it away, and when Mr. Calavicci answered the door, I told him to . . . ."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I interrupted the stream of words emanating from the little guy in front of me. "Back up. Start again. You went over to Dr. Beckett's on Sunday and AL was there?"

"Yes, sir?" He looked at me as if it had been a trick question. Maybe it was.

"What was he doing at Sam's? On Sunday? He said he had gone over there on Thursday after the fight . . ." and I trailed off, thinking again of the nervous way Al had been the other day. What had happened since last week to turn this man so completely around? And was Sam really so upset by what I had said he had thrown away his thesis, a semester's worth of work?

"I don't know, sir," Wolfgang said. "I didn't exactly pry, sir, not with the way Calavicci was dressed . . . ."

Okay, this was NOTHING like the Twilight Zone. That, at least, had some concept of sense! "And how was Calavicci dressed?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"He was in just a robe, sir." He paused, then continued on as if he didn't notice just how bizarre that statement was, "Anyway, I had told him to remind Dr. Beckett of my tutoring session with him Monday night, and when Dr. Beckett didn't show up, I got worried and went back over and neither of them answered."

Curiouser and curiouser. And then, it hit me again about Sam's behavior since Monday . . . and Al's, too.

But even those two events paled next to the phone call. The one that prompted my flight up to the cabin, the one that filled me with anxiety and dread. The one that made me REALLY start to worry about Sam.

I was getting ready to take a shower and curl up on the couch to watch a movie (my favorite – _The Maltese Falcon_ ) when the phone rang around 8:00 p.m.

"Spence?" The voice was so soft I could barely make out who it was.

"Al?"

"You've got to help me," he whispered, quiet as a church mouse.

"What's wrong, Al? And can you speak up?"

"No, I can't speak up," he responded, in the same silent tones. "It's . . . it's Sam."

I felt my heart come up in my throat. "SAM? What's wrong with Sam?"

"He's gone berserk, that's what's wrong! I'm . . . I'm afraid, Spence."

Al Calavicci? Afraid of Sam Beckett? "Al, that's ridiculous."

"You don't know him, Spence. You always underestimated that kid. I did, too, for a time. He's not the person you think he is."

"Al, Sam is not going to hurt you. He's not like that . . . ."

"He was in the ring." Okay, he had a point there. "Look, I don't have much time," he continued. "He'll be back any minute now. You have to come get me."

"Where are you, Al?"

"The cabin."

Those two words chilled me to the bone. "What are you doing up there?"

"It wasn't my idea. He . . . he kidnapped me."

"KIDNAPPED? SAM?" I took a breath, shaking my head at the mental image of Al Calavicci being kidnapped by Sam Beckett. Impossible. "Al, you're an ex-POW and you're telling me you let yourself get kidnapped?"

"I didn't mean to . . . he said he wanted to talk about this . . . this competition of ours. I believed him. I thought we'd go for a drink or something, then when we were in the car, he put a knife to my throat and told me to keep driving."

"A knife?! SAM?!"

"He kept ranting and raving the whole time, talking gobbledygook and threatening me. I was scared – I just did what he said. And now . . . I think he's gonna kill me."

This was just TOO fantastic. "Look, Al, I don't know what's going on between you two, but this has gone on far enough. Maybe you should just put . . . ."

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed. "Here he comes. I gotta go." In the background I could hear Sam's voice sternly saying, "Who are you calling? Put the phone down, now." Al came on with one last plea, "Please help m . . . ."

The line went dead. I immediately tried the number, but it was busy. And it stayed busy for the next hour.

An hour? Damn it! Why did I wait so long? Why didn't I call the cops and ask them to check it out? Because I couldn't expose Sam to that. The scandal, if any of this were true, would've destroyed any credibility he may have had. And what about me? He was using my cabin, and I gave him the key. That immediately implicated me, too. No, the cops were not an option. I had to face Sam alone. He was my friend; he looked up to me. I could handle him . . . couldn't I?

I pushed the pedal to the floor, willing my car to go just a little bit faster, the spare key to the cabin I NEVER thought I'd ever have to use clutched tightly in my hand. I was worried, not knowing what I was walking into. Was I going to had to fend off advances from Sam – or keep him from killing Al? I really didn't know which one would be worse. C'mon, you damn bucket of bolts, GO!! Why'd I have to buy a Subaru?

I pulled up outside the cabin, scared and yet oddly exhilarated about this possible confrontation with Sam. I put it down to the natural adrenaline rush the situation had given me, and calmed myself as I observed my surroundings.

First thing I noticed was the other car in the driveway, but strangely, it wasn't Al's red Trans-Am. Didn't he say that Sam had forced him to take HIS car? So where was it? Sam doesn't own a car, yet he did tell me he had transportation. Could he have borrowed it from a friend?

While I was still trying to figure that out, I let my eyes scan the cabin itself: the main room was dark, the flicker of occasional brightness let me guess that a fire had been lit in the fireplace. My bedroom seemed to have some life, too, as I saw a smaller flicker of what could only be candles through the window – showing a dimmed beauty that contrasted dramatically with what was going through my head.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe all my fears and worries were for nothing. Maybe he really was just up here with a girl, the rest of it just my fevered sense of imagination from watching too many daytime soaps.

And then, through the picture window I had put in the living room last summer, I saw Sam, alone and half-dressed, walking from the bedroom to the kitchen. Well, that still could've supported my theory (my good, safe, original HETEROSEXUAL theory) – after all, if he and his girlfriend had just finished, they may be hungry . . . .

But then I saw the whip in his hand.

He turned, and when he saw my car, he gave a wave – one of those part 'hello', part 'come on in' waves – and slowly folded the whip, placing it on the coffee table. He then walked out of my line of sight.

I got out of my car, the nervousness increasing in my body. What in the hell was going on with Sam? And if he was with a date, what could he be doing to that poor girl? And how in the hell did Al fit into all this?

The walk up to the front door seemed long – each step was wrought with thoughts of how my life and perceptions had been turned upside down in the past two weeks.

As soon as I closed the front door behind me, Sam strolled out of the kitchen. He was quite a sight, up close. Dressed in only a pair of tight, TIGHT, blue jeans, it was plain to see he had just taken a shower, as his damp hair clung to his head and beads of water condensed along his body. I had seen Sam so many times over the past couple of years, but there was something about him at that moment, something sweet and innocent, yet sensual and dangerous. I felt my heart start pounding again, without knowing why. He saw me standing in the doorway and gave me a puzzled smile. "Spence! What are you doing here?"

But even with the apparent normal scene before me (save the whip), I found myself asking, "Where's Al?"

That seemed to puzzle him. "Al?"

"Don't play dumb, Sam. I got a call from him . . . from this cabin. And I heard your voice in the background. He said you had kidnapped him." As soon as the words were actually spoken, I realized how stupid they sounded.

"Kidnapped?" Sam repeated, with great amusement. "I . . . I don't THINK so." A light came up in his eyes. "Oh, so YOU were the one he was calling."

"Then, he's here?"

"Well, he WAS here. He followed me up here, told me he wanted to talk, to settle all this once and for all. He's been pestering me for days, since that last fight, wanting a re-match. I asked him to leave, but he refused. I got so frustrated I just walked out, to give myself some time to think." He picked up a poker and started to tend the fire. "When I got back, he was on the phone. I was so mad I threw him out and told him to stop bothering me." He looked at me again with those deep hazel eyes, the ones that could melt Antarctica, and laughed, "He said I KIDNAPPED him? And you BELIEVED him?"

All right, now I felt REALLY silly, and I knew I was blushing. "Yeah."

"I think he was just messing with you, Spence. You know how he LOVES playing those stupid practical jokes."

"You're right." God, how could I have been so stupid?

He gave me another of his shy smiles, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "But now that you're here . . . maybe we can have some fun." He trailed it down my arm, making me shiver, and sighed, "I'm so glad you came tonight, Spence." His meaning couldn't have been more obvious. "You see, I've never done this before and . . ."

"Oh, boy," I muttered, trying to disentangle our hands. This was one of the scenarios I had been dreading (although it was slightly better than the alternative) and I had to let him down easy. "I'm flattered, really," I started, not sure how to say what I needed to say and still keep Sam's fragile ego intact. "And part of me is very honored you feel this way towards me, but . . . I just don't feel that way about you. It's not you," I added quickly, "I just don't go that way."

He pressed into me, his eyes half-closed with passion. "Give me a chance, Spence – I can change your mind." But just as he was about to lean in and kiss me, I heard a noise coming from the bedroom.

"What was that?"

"What was what?" he asked, playing dumb. But he had flinched, so I knew he had heard it, too. I charged off to the bedroom and my world crumbled beneath my feet when I saw . . . what I saw.

Al. On the bed. Hands tied to the headboard, legs spread-eagled out and tied down as well. He was clothed in just a studded leather codpiece and a large dog collar, and his entire body was covered with whip marks. It was difficult to see in the room, as the only illumination came from the dozen or so candles stationed around the bed, but there was no mistaking the terror that was on his face.

"HOLY SHIT!!" I cried out in surprise.

"SPENCE!" he shouted as soon as he saw me. "Spence, my God, you gotta get me out of here!"

Just as I went to step into the room a woman, a redheaded goddess, moved out of the shadows and sauntered to the bed. Her flame-red hair cascaded over her shoulders and she was dressed all in black leather. (If you could call the too-small laced-up-the-front corset she was spilling out of, matching G-string, and thigh-high boots 'dressed'.) In her hand, she carried a different whip, longer than Sam's, which she snapped with a professional, practiced motion; the resulting _CRACK!!_ producing the silence she demanded.

"SAM!" I exclaimed. "What the hell is. . . ?"

He didn't answer me, just saying, "Don't worry, Spence, I'll take care of this," and pushed right past me. He took a couple of menacing steps towards the bound man and raised his hand as if to smack him across the face. "Did I say you could speak, scum?" he demanded.

"No, sir," Al said quickly. "Sorry, sir." SIR?!? He didn't even call the Dean of Students 'sir'!

Sam then stepped over to the arresting apparition. Leading her away from the bed, he hissed, "I thought I told you to keep him quiet!"

"I tried," she sighed, clearly unhappy and frustrated, "but he just won't take his medicine like a good little boy."

Sam walked right up to Al and stared down at him. "Do I have to get the ball-gag out again, Bingo?" he threatened.

"No . . . no . . . I'll . . . I'll be good," Al begged. "Please not that."

"Please, WHAT?" Sam commanded.

Al bowed his head (well, as much as he could) and supplicated, "Please, master, sir."

Sam caressed his cheek tenderly and smiled. "He's learning, but not quickly enough. Mistress Sapphire?" I stared as the lethal lovely stepped forward, ran her hand down Sam's naked chest, and proceeded to kiss him as thoroughly as I've ever seen anyone kissed. Mouths opened, and even in the minimal light I could see their tongues dueling. They broke apart with a mutual moan of lust and Sam murmured, "Perhaps a session with the cat o' nine tails will teach him a lesson." She kissed the kid playfully on the nose and went off in search of her chosen implement of torture.

That was it – I finally woke from my daze. "What the hell is going on here, Sam?" I figured I'd ask him, as Al was obviously not in any position to speak.

He walked over to me, and damn it if the innocent young farm boy was back. "I lied to you, Spence," he apologized. "Al IS here."

"No shit, Sam. I figured that out. Hey, stop that!" The deadly dominatrix had found her new toy and was about to hit Al. She looked up at us, her hand still poised to strike. Sam slowly shook his head 'no' and she dropped her arm, a pout of disappointment touching her painted, angelic face. "Now would you mind telling me just what the fuck is going on?"

Sam turned back to me, a cool grin on his face. "Bingo and I have been talking, Spence. You see, he came over to my place last weekend after the fight, and said the strangest thing." He gave a grimace back to Al before continuing, "He had the audacity to say I stole his thesis." He turned back to me, and laid a hand back upon my arm. "Now, where would he have gotten the notion that I would've stolen his idea for a parallel hybrid computer?"

I could feel my face pale, as the conversation I had with Calavicci early last semester filtered through my brain. "That was your THESIS idea?" I couldn't help but ask the prone man in my bed. "You never said that was your thesis!"

I saw Sam give a slight convulsive movement out of the corner of my eye, giving me the odd vision of him holding back a laugh. But when I turned to face him, he had a look of shock and dismay. "Are you saying he was right, Spence? That the idea you gave me WAS his?"

"Uh, Sam," I said, shakily, knowing I was walking on eggshells here. "I . . . I didn't know that was his thesis – he never said that he was using that for his dissertation. We . . . we just talked theoretically about the computer, like two academics."

"Well, isn't that interesting," Sam said, turning his face away from me in apparent shame, his face growing red. "Not only is my thesis not my own, but when I tried to put my time travel theory into it, you tell me it's incomprehensible gibberish. Now I have nothing." He glared at Al, then back to me. "Nothing but you two, that is."

I looked from Sam to the bound and prone form of Al in front of me, terror stilling my tongue and rooting me to the spot. Sam really had flipped, hadn't he? Had my prized pupil really, truly gone insane? Could that have been what that thesis had been? The last ramblings of a madman? I was always the first to admit the thin line there was between genius and madness. How many times has it happened before – pure genius, just fading away? It was obvious Sam was teetering on edge; I didn't have much time if I was going to get Al and I out of this safely.

But before I had a chance to spring into action, Sam released a decisive sigh, and said, "Guess there's just one thing left to do." He stepped back from me and began removing his belt; his eyes got cold, and a shiver went down my back. "I'll have to teach YOU a lesson, too . . . a lesson you won't ever forget." When the belt was free, he pulled it tight, snapping it in front of me. "Mistress Sapphire?"

"Yessss, master?" she purred, sexily.

"Handcuffs. And nipple clamps."

"Oooh, you got it, baby," she cooed.

"God, Sammy, please!" I begged, shamelessly. "Don't do this, Sam. I can help you."

He just snapped the belt tighter in his hands, and his eyes shone with an evil gleam. "Please kneel, professor."

"Sammy . . . ."

"I said, PLEASE, professor. I won't ask again." Seeing no other alternative if I was to get both Al and I out of this alive, I did as he requested. He patted me on the head and praised, "That's a good boy. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me."

"NOOOOOO!!" I screamed.

Calmly, coldly, he told me, "This belt is your life, Sebastian. Say it."

"Oh, God, Sam . . . please . . . ."

"SAY IT!" he commanded.

"Dear God! This . . . this belt is my life." I watched in terror as Sam grabbed the belt in his hand, pulling it taut, testing the strength. I gave a swallow, cringing as I awaited the first blow.

"This," he started, holding the end with the buckle firm between his fingertips, caressing it reverently, "represents your birth." He grabbed the other end of the belt, continuing, "And this represents your death. Join them together in a loop . . . and you've been had, Spence."

"Wha . . . wha . . . wha?" My brain was on a two-second delay, not comprehending what was going on, even as a broad smile spread across Sam's face.

"GOTCHA!" Al crowed out triumphantly from the bed.

"Do you think that'll be enough of a Dick and Jane explanation for the review board to understand?" Sam was asking me through his giggles. Only as the room began to fill with laughter did I realize that he had just quoted from his new, modified string theory, the one he had developed to travel in time.

"Wha . . .?" I still didn't trust my own voice.

"Oh, man, Spence, if you could only see the look on your face right now!" Al chortled. "And, Sammy, you should quit physics and be a fuckin' actor, you know that?" Even Mistress Sapphire was holding her sides, she was laughing so hard.

"But . . . but . . . the whips? The marks?" I asked no one, everyone.

A red-polished fingernail brushed across one of the whip marks on Al's torso and it streaked. She brought it up to her lips and licked it sensuously. "Mmmm . . . cherry flavored body paint. Man's greatest invention," which set off a new round of laughter.

"You did say we could do almost anything if we would just work together," Al said, as he continued to chuckle. " Including pull a whopper on YOU!"

I watched in shocked silence as the leggy redhead untied Al and handed him a nearby robe. She then sashayed gracefully up to Sam – she was nearly as tall as he was in those 5-inch high spiked heels – and he wrapped a protective arm around her slender waist. "Spence, this is Brandi. She's . . . she's a friend."

The stunning creature smiled at him when he said that before presenting her hand to me, which I shook. "Nice to meet you, sir," she said, her voice silky and sexy. She turned back to Sam and kissed him chastely on the lips. "Thanks for the chance to 'get-even'."

He chuckled at that and looked over at Al. "So . . . the revenge was sweet, eh?" I could only imagine what had gone on between those three.

Brandi also glanced at Al, who, I was amazed to note, seemed almost humbled. She tittered and her laughter was like a hundred tiny bells. "VERY sweet, Sam."

The older man took a step towards the others and held out something to the girl. "Here's your plane ticket, kiddo, for a job well done. Just as we agreed."

Sam added, with a smile, "Use it in good health."

Tears formed in her eyes as she bent down to hug Al to her. "Thanks so much. Both of you. For everything."

Al held her close and tenderly kissed her cheek, whispering words I could barely make out, "God speed, little one." When they parted, he gently wiped the tears away from her lovely face.

Sam broke in, placing a caring hand on her shoulder, and asked, "You need help collecting your things?" At his comment, Al began to remove the dog collar. THAT was Brandi's?

"No, that's okay. You can keep everything. I won't be needing them anymore." She gave another laugh and thumbed at Al, "Besides, you might want them with HIM around!"

"HEY!" an indignant Calavicci cried out.

Sam helped her on with her coat, then wrapped her once more in his arms, and hugged her tightly. "You take care of yourself. And say hi to the folks for us, okay?"

"I will, Sam. And I'll never forget you for this." She treated his cheek to one last kiss before she turned to leave. As she passed me, she said, "It's been a pleasure, Dr. LoNigro," and with a final giggle, she was gone.

When we heard her car start up outside, I took that as my cue to leave as well. "If you two are done having fun at my expense, I'll be on my way," I told them bitterly.

"Wait, Spence . . . don't go," Sam pleaded as he grabbed my hand. "We want you to stay."

I exploded, "After what you two just did to me? Why? What else do you have planned to entertain me? Animal sacrifices? Ritualistic murder?"

"Shit, Spence, it was only a joke," Al muttered.

"Yeah, Spence, you told me I should loosen up, remember?" Sam asked innocently.

"And to you that means making a fool of me?" I demanded angrily. "I thought you had finally snapped, Sam. I thought you were trying to seduce me. I thought Al was in serious danger. I thought . . . I thought all sorts of things. And it was 'only a joke'." I threw my hands up in the air. "What the hell were you two thinking?"

Al cast his eyes downward, and replied, thoroughly chastised, "I . . . we're sorry, Spence. We didn't mean any harm. It sounded funny when Sam suggested it."

"SAM?!? This was all SAM'S idea?" I looked over at my friend in disbelief.

He blushed, saying, "You see, Spence, I was really distressed when I discovered Al and I were working on the same doctoral thesis, and when he found out YOU were the one who had given me the idea . . . well, he wanted some payback."

Al added, "Hell, all I wanted to do was egg your car." When he said that, Sam stifled a laugh.

"Don't believe him, Spence," Sam chuckled. "He thought up the whole thing."

"And you went along with it?" I asked the young man, dubiously.

"Uh-huh," Al answered. "Not only did he go along with it, Brandi was HIS idea."

Sam cut in at that point. "I guess I was still upset over your criticism of my presentation, so . . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. "Here we are."

I just stared at them, my mouth hanging open. THIS was my sweet, innocent Sam Beckett? "What the hell have you done to this boy, Al?"

Sam just smiled at me as he leaned over and enfolded Al in his arms. Nuzzling the older man's neck tenderly, he sighed, "He's made me whole."

"Awww, kid," Al responded, sliding his hand up Sam's back and melting into the younger man's embrace, "stop with the mushy stuff." And then he laid a kiss on the young man that rivaled the passion of the one given him by Sapphire . . . ahhh, Brandi.

Okay. I was seeing it, but I didn't believe it. I was so far out of the Twilight Zone now, I was in another universe. Was I actually standing here, in my own cabin, watching my two prized students – two men that just one week ago were trying to kill each other – cuddling and acting like lovers? I closed my eyes and gasped the only sentence I could form: "Is . . . is THIS a joke, too?" Oh, God, PLEASE let the answer be 'yes'.

"Well, you WANTED us to be friends, Sebastian," Sam explained patiently.

I watched as Al reached up and brushed the bangs out of Sam's eyes, and the look in those hazel orbs spoke volumes; there was respect, adoration, happiness, desire . . . and love. Al didn't even try to hide the same emotions in his own dark eyes as he turned to me and laughed, "Kick in the butt, eh?"

This was not a joke. My two friends had somehow, someway, somewhen fallen in love. I shook my head ruefully and laughed, "THAT, my dear Bingo, is the ULTIMATE understatement. And how did this all come about?"

"Well, you know how we've been at each other's throats?" Al started. When I nodded, he continued, "Turns out it was part competition, part jealousy, part thesis envy, and 100% sexual tension."

Sexual tension? Of course, NOW it all made sense. How else would two healthy All-American males deal with the fact they were sexually attracted to one another but to try to kick the shit out of each other? I was glad they had found a more . . . agreeable outlet for their excess testosterone.

Sam pulled away from Al and came over to me. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he asked, hesitantly, "You're not mad at us, are you?"

I cupped his precious face, looked deep into those bright expectant eyes, and released a resigned breath, saying, "Boys will be boys, huh?" At the nod of his head, I smiled, "No, Sammy, I guess I'm not mad at you."

Sam crushed me in a huge bear hug as he declared, "I'm so glad, Spence, because we need your help."

"Help? WE?"

Al stepped forward. "Yeah. See, Sam and me are joinin' forces."

"WHAT?!?"

Wrapping his arm once more around Sam, he explained, "We've been talking, Spence, and you were right all along. We SHOULD work together, and that's what we're gonna do."

"We want to combine our proposals and give a joint presentation," Sam added. "His computer design is really brilliant . . . ."

"And Sam's time-travel theory will blow the roof off this joint," Al finished.

"You . . . you agree with his theory?" I asked skeptically.

"Spence, you obviously didn't get far enough into the paper. It's absolutely mind-boggling. And I'd stake my reputation that given enough time and money, he'll make it happen someday."

"Don't you have something more valuable than your reputation?" Sam piped up with a smirk.

"You're cruisin', kid," Al shot back with a smirk of his own.

"Anyway, that's where you come in, Spence," Sam continued, seriously. "We only have a couple of weeks before the deadline, and we really need you to help us pull all this together."

"What about your advisor?" I questioned Al.

"Dr. Anderson? The guy can't stand me. I think he'll be glad I'm someone else's headache for awhile."

"Still, we'll call him in the morning and let him know, okay?"

"So you're gonna help us?" Sam asked, excitedly.

I looked back and forth between my two mad geniuses and simply nodded. "Uh-huh . . . and God help me, too. I must be outta my mind."

Al shrugged. "Eh, join the club."

I sent up a silent prayer that we were doing the right thing as I clapped my hands, ready to get down to business. "All right, we have a long weekend here ahead of us, so why don't you . . . uh . . . get dressed, Bingo, and we can talk about it in the living room, 'kay?" I walked out of the room to the accompaniment of another round of giggles and some other sounds I didn't even WANT to know the origins of. I just shook my head and gave a chuckle of my own, as I headed into the kitchen to brew the pot of coffee I KNEW we were going to need.

Who would've thought? If they could turn this little competition of theirs into a whole different aspect of a relationship, maybe traveling in time wasn't quite such an impossible dream after all. As I had told them many times, if they could only learn to work together – anything was possible.

And they were about to prove it. To everyone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably the chapter that took the most work, and we both went back and forth on it, so it's the chapter that both of us wrote the most. But I *love* the string theory addition.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is: the last chapter. And for those of you who've been following me, first of all, 'thanks'. Second, this is the last QL story I am posting here from my past. I have a few WIPs that I may put on my [Tumblr](http://kylaraingress.tumblr.com/), and I still have a few _Sherlock_ WIPs I'm trying to finish, but I don't know if I have any more in me at the moment. Thanks for following!

_ **EPILOGUE:** _

**January 22, 1988**

**AL:**

"Hey, Sammy! Hurry up! You're gonna miss the first punch!"

"Coming!"

"Yeah, and always before me!" I joked as Sam came running into the living room carrying a big bag of chips and a couple of Miller Lite long necks. He handed over the goodies and climbed up next to me. I settled back against the armrest of the couch and placed one arm around the still athletic form of my lover as he slowly stretched his legs to land at the other armrest. "Sorry 'bout that. The call ran longer than I expected." He reached over, took the chips back from me, and ripped the bag open, stuffing a fistful into his mouth.

"So?" I asked, as I twisted open the bottles and handed one back to him.

"So . . . what?" he asked with his mouth full.

"So . . . are Spence and Brandi coming to the PQL ground-breaking next week?"

He swallowed and looked back at me sheepishly. "I . . . I don't know. I never got around to asking him. He was so busy telling me about the new baby . . . ."

"SAM!"

"I'm just kidding. Of COURSE they're coming! He said they wouldn't miss it for the world." He grabbed some more chips from the bag, and said, "It's gonna be so good to see them again. It's been so long."

"Yeah, not since the wedding a couple of years ago. Who'd've thunk that getting Brandi involved in our little tête-à-tête. . . ."

"Don't you mean your grand blackmail scheme?" he asked.

I waved my hands around in a fashion that would make my ancestors proud. "You say po-ta-to, I say po-tat-o . . . whatever! Fact is, we changed her life for the better. Or rather, YOU did."

"I know," Sam said, smiling. "I'm so glad she took my advice and decided to go back to school. And now she's going for her OWN doctorate!" He tilted his beer bottle towards mine and we toasted the young lady. "I'm so happy for her."

I snatched the bag away from him, and took some chips for myself. "How IS the baby doing, anyway?"

"Wonderful. They're already talking about having another. Considering Brandi's studying to be a sex therapist, I'd say to expect one in another nine months."

"MAN! Spence is one lucky bastard. I wouldn't mind helping her with her lessons."

"Tell me about it, you hound." He took a sip a beer, then looked at me. "You know, I think he was crying when I asked him."

"Spence? Or the baby?"

"Both, actually, now that you mention it. He was so excited . . . he thought we would forget him."

"How could we forget the man who made all this possible?"

"That's what *I* said." As if that was a cue, he leaned in and gave me a slow peck on the lips. "Then he REALLY started crying." Deciding he enjoyed kissing more than talking, his mouth closed over mine, and soon thoughts of the Project and Spence and the fight all dimmed from view. I sank deeper into the couch as Sam sank deeper into me, his tongue battling my own as he once more staked his claim on my soul. The bell signaling the start of the fight brought us back to reality and we parted reluctantly. We had paid good money to the cable company to see this fight – the rest could wait a while longer.

Sam gave me a shy, sexy smile that made my heart jump and seized the chips from me once more, feeding me a couple before taking some for himself. "So, does Holmes have any chance tonight?" he asked, between mouthfuls.

I shook my head, as I took another long pull on my bottle. "Against Tyson? Nah. The guy's a Goddamn rock."

He was quiet for a few minutes as we watched the fight. "He doesn't have much footwork, does he?"

"When you're built like a freakin' brick wall, you don't need it."

"He's a little weak on his left side, too."

"Yeah, but who cares when you got a right cross that could stop a Mack truck?"

He was quiet for a few more minutes, watching, before he suddenly announced, "I could take him."

I almost choked on my beer. "YOU?!? This is Mike Tyson we're talkin' about, not Gushie, y'know! He's at least 10 years younger and outweighs you by 100 pounds!"

"Yeah," he responded, confidently, "but that's the point. I'm smaller, faster, smarter, more agile . . . ."

"Sam, to quote Dennis Miller, you'd be stomped like a narc at a biker rally."

He looked up at me again with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Well, I can still take you."

Cocking an eyebrow, I replied, sarcastically, "Oh, REALLY?"

I felt his hand caressing my thigh. "Uh-huh."

"Sez you." I buried my face in his silky hair, soaking in his clean, masculine smell. Even after ten years together, that's all it took to get me hard as a horny teenager (like there's any other kind). Knowing full well where this was heading, I quickly turned away, gathered up all the snack foods, and placed them on the coffee table.

My cock continued to swell and fill out as his arms snuck around my waist, pulling me into a hug. I felt his lips at the base of my neck, nuzzling, and my eyes slowly closed as I let the sensation of him overflow me. Little by little, bit by bit, his hands crept down to my pants, one finger slipping between the fabric and skin, the other running around to rub the front of my left thigh.

I cleared my throat, choking out, "By the way, what's the score?"

"Score?" I could hear the confusion and disappointment in his voice, and I turned to look at him. "I think Holmes won the last round."

"That's not what I'm talking about." I saw the blush hit my lover's cheeks, a tiny guilty grin formed on his lips, and I knew. "You lost track of the score again, didn't you?"

"I . . . I didn't mean to, Al," he blustered. "We've been so busy getting the project funded and scouting locations and it must've just slipped my mind."

"Bullshit, Beckett. You can remember a market list you made up in 1981 – you just always CONVENIENTLY forget the tally when I'm ahead."

"I don't recall you being ahead," he retorted sullenly.

"AH-HA! That's it, Beckett." I flipped him over on his back, and began undressing him. "We're gonna settle this once and for all. And this time, I'M gonna be the scorekeeper."

He smiled and challenged me, "G'head, Al . . . hit me with your best shot."

So I did.

**The End**

 


End file.
